Clara  ILotttee  35ttrnl)am 


INSTEAD  OF  THE  THORN.    With  frontispiece. 

THE  RIGHT  TRACK.     With  frontispiece  in  color. 

THE  GOLDEN  DOG.     Illustrated  in  color. 

THE  INNER  FLAME.     With  frontispiece  in  color. 

CLEVER  BETSY.    Illustrated. 

FLUTTERFLY.     Illustrated. 

THE  LEAVEN  OF  LOVE.    With  frontispiece  in  color. 

THE  QUEST  FLOWER.    Illustrated. 

THE   OPENED    SHUTTERS.       With  frontispiece  in 

color. 

JEWEL:  A  CHAPTER    IN    HER   LIFE.    Illustrated. 
JEWEL'S   STORY  BOOK.     Illustrated. 
THE  RIGHT  PRINCESS. 
MISS  PRITCHARD'S  WEDDING  TRIP. 
YOUNG  MAIDS  AND  OLD. 
DEARLY  BOUGHT. 
NO  GENTLEMEN. 
A  SANE  LUNATIC. 
NEXT  DOOR. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  BEECH  KNOLL. 
MISS  BAGG'S  SECRETARY. 
DR.  LATIMER. 

SWEET  CLOVER.      A  Romance  of  the  White  City. 
THE  WISE  WOMAN. 
MISS  ARCHER  ARCHER. 
A  GREAT  LOVE.    A  Novel. 
A  WEST  POINT  WOOING,  and  Other  Stories. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NBW  YORK 


LIXDA  BARRY 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 

A  Novel 

by 
Clara  Louise  Burnham 


Boston  and  New  York 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

(£be  fiitersibe  prcs£  Cambribge 

1916 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,  BY  CLARA  LOUISE  BURKHAM 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  Apri 


Xte  Rtotrsifct  J)rtB« 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U  .  S   .   A 


TO 

C.  T.  R. 

WITH  LOVING  AND  GRATEFUL  MEMORIES 
OP  JOCKEY  HILL 


2134459 


Contents 

I.  AT  THE  SOUTH  SHORE I 

II.  HOT  TEA 10 

III.  COLD  WATER 25 

IV.  THE  JUNE  NIGHT 44 

V.  THE  CAPE 57 

VI.  THE  SHINGLED  COTTAGE 73 

VII.  THE  DAYS  THAT  FOLLOWED         ....    94 

VIII.  A  BUSINESS  INTERVIEW 109 

IX.  CORRESPONDENCE 122 

X.  THE  SPELL  BREAKS 134 

XI.  EASTWARD  Ho! 145 

XII.  EN  ROUTE 160 

XIII.    HOME-COMING 174 

XIV.  BLANCHE  AURORA 189 

XV.  THE  HARBOR 201 

XVI.  THE  VOICE  OF  TRUTH 218 

XVII.  THE  RAINBOW .231 

XVIII.  THE  PINK  DRESS      .      .      .      «      ...  247 

XIX.  THE  WILD  ROSE       »-— 261 

XX.  BEHIND  THE  BIRCHES 278 

XXI.  REVELATION 293 

vii 


Contents 

XXII.  THE  PENITENT    .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .306 

XXIII.  A  GOOD  NEIGHBOR 321 

XXIV.  WHITCOMB'S  CONFESSION 335 

XXV.  THE  MAN  AND  THE  MAID 350 

XXVI.  A  DIPLOMATIST 366 

XXVII.  THE  FULL  MOON  .  .  .  .  .  .  .379 


INSTEAD  OF  THE  THORN 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 

CHAPTER  I 

AT   THE    SOUTH    SHORE 

ON  a  June  evening,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Radcliffe 
were  entertaining  their  New  York  friends 
the  Lindsays  at  dinner  at  the  South  Shore 
Club.  The  dining-room,  with  its  spacious 
semicircle  of  glass,  is  a  place  where  Chicago 
may  entertain  New  York  with  complacence, 
for  the  windows  give  upon  Lake  Michigan, 
whose  billows  break  so  close  to  the  border 
of  velvety  grass  that  the  effect  is  of  dining 
on  a  yacht. 

The  Lindsays  were  enamored  of  the  great 
marine  view,  lovely  in  the  long  June  even- 
ing, and  with  many  an  admiring  comment 
watched  the  white  gulls  hover  and  wheel 
above  the  sunset  water. 
•  Mrs.  Radcliffe  was  a  stout,  white-haired 
woman,  costumed  with  disregard  of  expense, 
and  she  habitually  wore  an  expression  of 
countenance  which  betokened  general  op- 
timism. 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Mrs.  Lindsay,  of  about  her  friend's  age, 
was  spare  and  lined  of  face,  offering  a  con- 
trast to  the  hostess's  plump  smoothness. 
She  again  raised  a  jeweled  lorgnette  to  watch 
the  wheeling  gulls. 

"Oh,  Chicago  would  n't  be  anything  with- 
out the  lake,"  remarked  Mrs.  Radcliffe  com- 
placently. 

"And  this  clubhouse  is  such  a  perfect 
place  to  watch  it,"  returned  her  friend. 

"We  have  a  very  charming  ballroom  here," 
said  Mrs.  RadclirTe.  "I'm  sorry  it  isn't  a 
formal  dance  night." 

The  orchestra  was  playing  a  Hesitation 
Waltz,  which  reminded  her.  For  the  Hes- 
itation had  not  yet  been  driven  from  the 
field  by  troops  who  cantered,  and  those 
strains  were  always  sufficient  to  people  the 
spacious  ballroom  until  it  was  alive  with 
dancers,  old  and  young.  Indeed,  as  one  comic 
paper  had  it  that  season,  "He  who  does  not 
hesitate  is  lost."  Just  when  or  why  silver 
threads  among  the  gold  ceased  to  relegate 
advancing  years  to  a  shelf  above  the  dancers, 
it  would  be  hard  to  say;  but  certain  it  is 
that  the  rosy  walls  behind  the  pure  white 
columns  in  the  popular  ballroom  threw  their 


At  the  South  Shore 


diffused  and  becoming  light  that  season 
upon  sometimes  agile  but  always  determined 
middle  age,  as  well  as  upon  slender  youth. 

There  is  a  point,  however,  where  Terpsi- 
chore stands  inexorably  and  says,  "Thus  far 
and  no  farther":  a  point  where  the  wistful 
dancer  realizes  that  all  is  Hesitation,  and  the 
Waltz  balks.  This  is  reached  in  the  matron 
at  the 'weight  of  two  hundred  pounds,  and 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  had  arrived  there;  so,  like 
the  spinster  of  the  story,  who  settled  down 
to  contentment  with  her  lot  when  she  had 
"stopped  struggling"  Mrs.  Radcliffe  en- 
joyed peacefully  her  visits  to  the  club,  and 
invaded  the  ballroom  only  as  a  spectator. 

She  looked  up  now  at  her  friend.  "Have 
you  and  Mr.  Lindsay  joined  the  one-stepping 
legion?"  she  asked. 

"No,  we  have  not.  We  have  children  and 
rheumatism.  You  know  that  does  make  a 
difference."  Mrs.  Lindsay's  bright,  nervous 
eyes  snapped,  and  she  showed  a  set  of  artistic 
teeth. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe  shrugged  a  comfortable 
shoulder.  "Well,  I  have  one  child,  but  that 
would  n't  stop  me.  He  has  a  child  of  his 
own.  Let  him  attend  to  his  own  affairs.  I 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


have  n't  the  rheumatism,  but  neither  have  I 
any  breath  to  spare.  You  look  at  me  and 
you  see  that." 

The  two  ladies  laughed  and  sipped  their 
coffee.  Their  husbands,  with  chairs  moved 
sidewise,  were  talking  in  low  tones  over  their 
cigarettes. 

"We  have  such  a  charming  ballroom!"  re- 
peated the  hostess.  "It  makes  me  hate  my 
flesh  to  go  in  there;  but  Mr.  Radcliffe  says 
it 's  the  terror  of  his  life  that  I  may  lose  an 
ounce  and  want  to  dance,  and  he  is  always 
urging  delicious  salads  on  me."  The  plump 
speaker  shook  again,  till  the  diamonds  on 
her  ample  breast  scintillated.  "He's  the 
laziest  man  in  Chicago.  I  suppose  I  ought 
to  be  thankful  that  he  does  n't  improve  his 
slimness  and  the  shining  hour  by  coming 
and  dancing  with  these  buds.  Lots  of  other 
gray  heads  do,  and  the  buds  can't  help 
themselves,  poor  little  things.  Is  n't  that  an 
attractive  nosegay  over  there?"  The  speaker 
indicated  the  spot  where  twenty-four  young 
girls  and  men  were  gayly  dining  at  a  round 
table,  whose  roses,  violets,  and  lilies-of-the- 
valley  strove  with  the  material  feast. 

"My  daughter-in-law,  Harriet,  is  giving 
4 


At  the  South  Shore 


that  dinner  for  her  sister,  who  has  just  grad- 
uated from  our  University.  If  you  want  to 
see  a  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  look  at  Linda 
Barry  now.  That  is  she,  holding  up  the  glass 
of  grape-juice.  Are  n't  her  dimples  wonder- 
ful? Look  at  those  brown  eyes  sparkle. 
Does  n't  her  very  hair  look  as  if  electricity 
were  running  through  the  locks  ?  I  tell  you 
she's  a  handful!  I've  always  been  so  thank- 
ful that  Henry  chose  her  sister  Harriet. 
Such  a  quiet,  sensible  young  woman,  Harriet 
is.  She  would  n't  let  them  have  any  wine, 
you  see.  She  says  it  sounds  like  Fourth  of 
July  all  the  year  around  at  this  club,  and 
she 's  terribly  particular  about  Henry.  That 's 
Harriet,  sitting  with  her  back  to  us :  the  one 
with  the  velvet  around  her  throat.  I  admire 
my  daughter-in-law,  but  I  always  feel  she 
thinks  I'm  too  frivolous,  and  spend  too 
much  time  playing  cards." 

The  speaker's  husband  caught  a  part  of 
what  she  was  saying. 

"Yes,  Lindsay,"  he  said.  "You  knew  one 
of  Barry's  daughters  married  my  boy,  did  n't 
you?  That's  the  other  one  facing  us." 

Mr.  Lindsay  turned  his  iron-gray  head 
until  he  could  observe  the  smiling  girl,  offer- 

5 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


ing  a  grape-juice  toast.  The  family  of  the 
head  of  the  firm  of  Barry  &  Co.  was  of  in- 
terest to  him. 

Some  one  had  stuck  a  spray  of  leaves  in 
the  thick,  bright  waves  of  her  hair. 

"Make  a  corking  study  of  a  Bacchante,  if 
some  one  should  paint  her  just  as  she  is," 
remarked  the  New  York  man. 

"  Shades  of  my  daughter-in-law  —  if  she 
should  hear  you!  She'd  say  that  Linda  had 
outwitted  her  after  all."  Mr.  Radcliffe 
smiled  across  at  his  wife.  "Harriet  is  the 
modern  progressive  woman,  —  goes  in  for 
Suffrage  and  Eugenics  and  all  that;  but  with 
the  reserve  and  quiet  of  a  Puritan.  She  can't 
understand  Linda,  who  is  athletic,  a  com- 
rade of  boys,  the  idol  of  her  father,  and  a 
law  unto  herself." 

Mr.  Lindsay  was  regarding  the  girl,  who 
was  smiling  confidently  and  making  a  speech 
inaudible  from  the  distant  corner.  "She 
looks  as  if  she  had  the  world  by  the  tail,"  he 
remarked. 

"That  about  describes  her  state  of  mind," 
responded  the  other.  "Life  has  been  a  tri- 
umphal progress  for  her,  so  far.  She  has  n't 
had  a  mother  for  ten  years,  and  her  father 

6 


At  the  South  Shore 


could  n't  spare  her  to  go  away  to  school,  so 
here  she  has  been  educated,  right  in  our 
burg,  though  she  's  a  millionaire's  daughter. 
You  've  been  in  that  old-fashioned  stone  pile 
of  a  house  of  Barry's  up  there  on  Michigan 
Avenue?  I  should  think  Barry 'd  be  sick  of 
keeping  a  boarding-house  for  servants,  and 
I've  told  him  so." 

"He's  sick  of  something,"  returned  Mr. 
Lindsay  quietly,  "or  so  it  seemed  to  my 
wife  and  me.  We  dined  there  last  night." 

"Oh,  you  did?" 

"Yes.  The  daughter  was  n't  there.  Her 
father  said  she  was  away  at  one  of  her 
graduation  festivities.  What's  the  matter 
with  Barry?" 

The  speaker's  eyes  left  the  dimpling  girl 
with  the  dancing  eyes  and  came  back  to 
his  friend  as  he  asked  the  quiet  question. 

"Why,  nothing  that  I  know  of,"  replied 
the  other,  surprised.  "Cares  of  state,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"No  rumors  on  the  street?"  The  slow 
question  was  put  in  a  still  lower  tone. 

"Have  n't  heard  any,"  was  the  quick 
reply. 

The  other  nodded.   "Good,"  he  said. 
7 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Why,  have  you?" 

"There's  some  talk  in  the  East  about  the 
Antlers  project.  Probably  nothing  but  gos- 
sip." 

"Nothing  else,  I'm  sure.  All  these  big 
irrigation  deals  have  something  of  a  black 
eye  just  now,  but  Barry  &  Co.  know  what 
they're  about.  They  never  buy  a  pig  in  a 
poke." 

"What  are  you  saying  about  pigs,  Cyrus  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Radcliffe  smartly.  "You  know 
it's  a  tabooed  subject  in  our  best  families." 

Mr.  Radcliffe  paid  no  attention  to  her  in 
his  disturbance.  "You  know  my  nephew, 
Bertram  King?  He  came  straight  out  of 
college  into  that  bank,  and  has  been  there 
nearly  ten  years.  Barry  likes  him,  and  he's 
had  good  luck,  and  I  think  another  year  '11 
see  him  in  the  firm.  Everybody  believes  that 
Barry  does  n't  go  into  any  big  deal  unless 
King  approves.  I  see  Bertram  quite  often. 
He's  over  there  in  that  dinner  party  now: 
sitting  on  Harriet's  right.  You've  met  my 
daughter-in-law  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,  and  King,  too.  He  dined  with  us 
last  night.  Seemed  to  be  a  brainy  chap." 

"Oh,  he's  sedate  as  they  make  'em.  I 
8 


At  the  South  Shore 


often  think  he's  the  one  that  ought  to  have 
married  Harriet.  See  Henry  sitting  between 
those  pink  and  blue  girls,  and  keeping  'em 
in  a  roar?  He  gets  his  frivolity  from  his 
mother." 

Mrs.  Radcliffe  drew  down  the  corners  of 
her  lips.  "Frivolity  that  captured  Harriet 
Barry,  you'll  notice.  There  they  go,"  she 
added,  as  the  gay  young  people  at  the  round 
table  pushed  back  their  chairs;  "there  they 
go  to  their  dance.  Happy  young  things!" 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  sighed.  "With  all  their 
troubles  before  them,"  she  added,  and  the 
perfunctoriness  of  the  addition  made  Mr. 
Lindsay  smile. 

"I  hope  they  all  weather  it  as  well  as  you 
have,  Mrs.  Radcliffe,"  he  said. 

The  host  smiled  too  as  they  rose  from  the 
table. 

"So  say  we  all  of  us,"  he  remarked.  "Let's 
go  and  have  a  game.  Do  you  play  nullos, 
Mrs.  Lindsay?" 

"I  play  everything  I  can  get  my  hands 
on,"  she  returned  promptly. 


CHAPTER  II 

HOT   TEA 

LINDA  BARRY  was  looking  in  the  glass.  She 
liked  her  own  reflection,  and  no  wonder. 
She  was  coolly  critical  of  her  own  appearance, 
however,  and  granted  it  her  approval  only 
when  her  costume  and  coiffure  reached  the 
standard  of  her  own  prescription.  Whether 
any  one  else  criticized  her  was  a  matter  of 
profound  indifference.  She  had  been  known 
in  her  class  in  the  University  as  a  good  fellow, 
a  good  sport,  carelessly  generous,  and  con- 
fident of  her  own  powers,  physical  and 
mental. 

Emerson  says,  if  you  would  have  friends 
you  must  know  how  to  do  without  them. 
Linda  Barry  was  a  born  leader  and  took  her 
friends  for  granted.  She  never  went  out  of 
her  way  to  make  one.  That  sort  of  girl  al- 
ways has  some  enemies,  impotently  resenting 
all  that  she  arrogates  to  herself  and  that  her 
admirers  grant  to  her.  But  such  clashes  as 
had  taken  place  left  no  mark  on  Linda. 

10 


Hot  Tea 

Triumphant  and  careless  of  triumph,  she 
emerged  from  college  life  and  asked  of  an 
obliging  world,  "What  next?" 

She  was  looking  in  the  glass  now,  this 
Sunday  afternoon,  because  she  had  been 
romping  with  her  nephew,  aged  five,  and 
he  had  pulled  her  hat  awry. 

She  had  dropped  in  for  tea  at  her  sister's 
apartment  by  the  lake.  It  was  two  days  after 
the  dinner  dance,  and  she  was  still  feeling 
high  approval  of  Harriet  for  the  way  in 
which  she  had  managed  the  whole  affair. 

Bertram  King  was  sitting  opposite  her 
now,  holding  the  panting  small  boy,  whose 
cheeks  were  red  with  exertion,  and  who 
chuckled  with  joy  at  having  won  a  sudden 
and  tempestuous  battle  by  the  simple  move 
of  jerking  his  aunt's  hat  over  her  eyes. 

"I  beated  Aunt  Linda.  I  beated  her,"  he 
shrieked  gayly. 

"Hush,  hush,  Harry  dear,"  said  his 
mother  from  the  tea-table.  "Aunt  Linda 
lets  you  get  too  excited." 

Aunt  Linda,  whose  very  presence  was  sug- 
gestive of  intoxicating  rough  and  tumble  to 
her  nephew,  winked  and  nodded  at  him  from 
the  glass. 

ii 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"I'll  catch  you  alone  some  day,"  she  said, 
with  a  significance  which  filled  him  with 
ecstatic  terror. 

He  jumped  up  and  down  in  the  encircling 
arms. 

"No,  you  won't,  no,  you  won't!"  he 
shouted.  "Uncle  Bertram  won't  let  you." 
The  child's  active  arms  caught  the  ribbon 
that  held  his  protector's  eyeglasses,  and 
jerked  them  from  his  nose. 

"Now,  Linda,  Linda,"  protested  the 
mother,  looking  proudly  at  the  lusty  young- 
ster, whose  rumpled  hair  and  floating  tie- 
ends  told  of  the  bout  just  finished.  "Listen, 
Harry,  there's  father  coming.  If  I  let  you 
take  him  his  tea,  will  you  be  very  careful?" 

Linda,  rehabilitated,  turned  from  the  mir- 
ror and  seated  herself  near  the  window. 

"Let  him  bring  me  my  tea,"  she  said, 
gazing  at  the  child  with  eyes  that  set  him 
again  to  effervescing  with  delicious  appre- 
hension. 

"No,  no,  she'll  grab  me!"  yelled  the  boy, 
on  a  yet  higher  pitch  of  joy. 

"Linda  dear,  it's  Sunday.  Let's  have  a 
little  quiet,"  pleaded  her  sister. 

At  this  moment,  the  head  of  the  house  en- 

12 


Hot  Tea 

tered,  and  his  hopeful  broke  his  bonds  and, 
rushing  to  meet  him,  was  lifted  to  a  safe 
perch  from  which  he  looked  down  in  rosy 
triumph  on  his  deserted  foe. 

"Hello,  everybody,"  said  Henry  Radcliffe. 
"If  there  isn't  the  girl  that  knows  every- 
thing —  including  how  to  dance !  You  're  a 
bird,  Linda.  How  are  you,  Bertram?"  The 
men  shook  hands,  then  the  host  approached 
the  tea-table  and  kissed  his  wife. 

"Put  Harry  right  down  here,  dear.  He's 
going  to  be  a  little  gentleman  and  pass  the 
tea." 

"But  not  to  Aunt  Linda,"  shouted  the 
child. 

"No,  no,"  agreed  his  mother  pacifically. 
"You  can  take  her  tea  to  Uncle  Bertram, 
and  he'll  pass  it." 

"Look  out,  Uncle  Bertram,  she'll  tickle 
you,"  advised  the  boy  out  of  long  experience. 

Linda,  leaning  lazily  back  in  her  armchair, 
met  King's  gray  eyes  and  gave  a  low  laugh. 

"Just  imagine  such  lese  majeste"  she  said, 
and  the  provoking  arch  of  her  lips  made 
Bertram  feel,  as  he  always  did,  that  she  was 
laughing  at  him,  not  with  him.  He  was  too 
used  to  it  to  be  disconcerted.  He  had  a 

13 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


serious,  even-featured,  smooth-shaven  face, 
light  hair  which  would  have  liked  to  wave 
had  its  owner  been  willing,  and  short-sighted 
eyes,  which,  nevertheless,  saw  far  enough  to 
understand  Linda  Barry  and  deplore  her. 

"She'll  catch  your  heels,  too,  if  you  go 
upstairs  in  front  of  her,"  continued  the 
small  boy,  chuckling  breathlessly  as  he 
watched  his  lazily  reclining  adored  one,  the 
sparks  in  whose  eyes  gave  every  hope  that 
she  was  as  ready  as  ever  to  spring. 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  n't  good  for  a  child. 
It  overexcites  him,"  remarked  Bertram, 
unsmiling,  dangling  his  eyeglasses  by  the 
ribbon. 

"Dear,  dear,"  said  Linda.  "Excuse  me! 
I  meant,  Hear,  hear!" 

"Now,  Harry  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe,  "can  you  be  careful?  Father  will  sit 
between  you  and  Aunt  Linda,  and  don't 
go  the  other  side  of  him  at  all.  Do  you 
understand  ? "  Then  to  her  sister,  "You  know 
how  I  value  these  cups,  Linda.  Please  be 
good." 

Linda  stifled  a  yawn  behind  her  white- 
gloved  hand  and  looked  very  good  indeed. 

"Henry  and  I,"  went  on  the  hostess  com- 


Hot  Tea 

placently,  "think  we  can't  begin  any  too  soon 
to  make  Harry  at  home  in  the  drawing-room. 
Why,  already  he  can  stand  and  drink  his 
cambric  tea,  and  manage  his  cup  as  well  as 
any  of  you,  can't  you,  dear?" 

Harry,  finding  himself  under  discussion, 
ceased  smiling  and  scuffed  violently  across 
the  rug. 

"That  is  n't  pretty,  darling.  Now,  this 
is  for  Uncle  Bertram  to  take  to  Aunt  Linda. 
Come  here.  Now,  be  careful." 

Henry  Radcliffe  took  a  seat  near  his  wife's 
table,  and  the  little  boy  seized  a  lettuce 
sandwich  and  took  a  bite  of  it  before  he  at- 
tempted the  cup. 

"Oh,  oh,  put  that  down,  Harry.  You  can 
have  it  in  a  minute."  The  mother  laughed 
as  she  placed  the  cup  in  the  child's  hands. 
"He  would  n't  eat  a  bit  of  lettuce  at  his  own 
supper,  but  because  grown-ups  are  having  it 
he  wants  it!"  she  remarked.  "That's  a  good 
boy,"  as  the  transit  of  the  cup  was  made 
safely.  "Now,  come  here  and  get  one  for 
Uncle  Bertram." 

As  the  child  obeyed,  his  mother  contin- 
ued: "I  must  tell  you  a  very  good  joke 
Harry  made  the  other  day.  He  was  playing 

IS 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


with  the  cat,  and  she  stretched  herself  out 
on  the  rug,  and  he  lay  down  with  his  head 
on  her  and  said,  'This  is  my  caterpillar/ 
Was  n't  that  clever?" 

Harry  glanced  around  the  assembly  rather 
sheepishly. 

"Bully  for  the  boy!"  laughed  his  father. 
"Come  here,  Turk." 

"Now,  don't  romp,  Henry,"  pleaded  his 
wife.  "Here's  Father's  tea,  Harry  dear. 
Take  it  nicely.  He's  learning  such  a  number 
of  German  words  these  days.  Fraulein  says 
he  has  a  real  talent  for  languages."  The 
mother  regarded  her  darling  fondly.  The 
child's  gayety  had  entirely  subsided,  and  he 
took  his  father's  cup  stolidly.  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe  gave  a  low  laugh  as  she  continued, 
"Now,  whenever  he  uses  a  big  word  in  Eng- 
lish and  is  n't  quite  sure  that  it  is  right,  he 
says  very  carelessly,  'Oh,  I  said  that  in 
Germany."  The  soft  laugh  increased  in 
merriment,  and  the  speaker  looked  at  her 
sister  and  King  for  appreciation.  Linda 
laughed. 

The  subject  of  her  remarks,  having  landed 
his  father's  cup  safely  in  the  paternal  hands, 
eased  his  embarrassment  by  stamping  again 

16 


Hot  Tea 

up  and  down  the  rug,  making  guttural  noises 
in  his  throat. 

"Now,  dear,  if  you're  going  to  do  that 
you'll  have  to  go  away,"  said  his  mother, 
and,  the  German  nurse  appearing  at  that 
moment  in  the  doorway,  she  accosted  her: 
"Is  Harry's  supper  ready?  Yes?  All  right. 
Go  on,  then,  darling,  we'll  excuse  you. 
Fraulein  has  your  nice  supper  all  ready. 
I'll  come  and  see  you  in  a  little  while." 

When  the  child,  too  self-conscious  even  to 
exchange  parting  hostilities  with  Aunt  Linda, 
had  left  the  room,  Bertram  King  looked  up 
from  stirring  his  tea. 

"Henry,"  he  said  shortly,  "have  I  your 
leave  to  lecture  Harriet?" 

"Dear  me,  Bertram,"  ejaculated  Linda, 
"are  you  going  to  take  on  another?  You'll 
soon  not  have  time  to  go  the  rounds,  and  the 
world  will  go  to  smash! " 

King  did  n't  look  at  her. 

Henry  Radcliffe  closed  his  hand  over  his 
wife's  as  it  rested  on  the  handle  of  the  teapot. 

"Certainly,  if  you  can  think  of  anything 
to  lecture  her  about." 

"Can't  you?"  As  King  asked  it  he  rose 
and,  coming  to  the  tea-table,  took  a  plate  of 

17 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


sandwiches  and  carried  them  to  Linda,  and 
then  back  to  Henry,  finally  setting  them  on 
the  table  and  helping  himself. 

His  cousin  shook  his  head.  "Rather  not!" 
he  ejaculated.  "I  hope  I  know  my  place.  I 
trip  after  Harriet  at  a  respectful  distance." 
This  time  he  picked  up  his  wife's  hand  and 
kissed  it. 

"This  is  fulsome,"  murmured  Linda  from 
her  armchair. 

"Then  you  share  the  lecture,  that's  all," 
returned  King  firmly,  resuming  his  seat. 
"Here's  my  text:  'No  one  should  ever  talk 
about  a  child  before  him  —  or  her.' ' 

"Harriet  has  only  one,  please  remember, 
Bertram,"  protested  Linda  kindly. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe  set  down  her  teacup,  and 
color  began  to  come  up  in  her  cheeks  as  she 
regarded  King.  "Bertram,  I  never — "  she 
began,  for  he  paused.  "It's  the  rarest  thing! 
But  here  where  we're  all  Harry's  own 
people"  —  a  little  rigidity  crept  into  the 
speaker's  voice  —  "I  didn't  mean  to  bore 
anybody.  Don't  you"  —  with  defiance  — 
"don't  you  think  that  was  very  witty  for  a 
child  of  his  age,  that  about  the  caterpillar? 
I  keep  his  sayings  in  a  book,  and  he 's  really 

18 


Hot  Tea 

a  remarkable  baby.  It  is  n't  at  all  because 
he 's  ours,  is  it,  Henry?  Oh"  —  with  sudden 
impatience  —  "it's  foolish  of  me  to  talk  to 
you  about  it,  Bertram.  What  do  you  know 
about  children!" 

"I've  been  one;  and  I  see  one  occasionally; 
and  I  marvel  to  Heaven  to  see  how  parents 
cut  themselves  out  of  half  the  fun  they  might 
have  with  them.  You  don't  seem  to  have 
grasped  my  text.  People  should  n't  talk 
about  children  before  them." 

"Of  course,  I  would  n't  scold  a  child  before 
others,"  said  Harriet,  with  some  excitement. 
"Now,  Bertram,  you  know  a  lot  about  bonds 
that  I  don't,  but  I  know  a  lot  about  chil- 
dren that  you  don't.  I  'm  not  just  an  animal 
mother.  I've  looked  into  pedagogy  and 
kindergarten  principles.  Harry  can  work 
beautifully  in  cardboard  already;  but,  of 
course,  if  it  bores  you  to  hear  about  him  — " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  King,  "parents  should 
also  take  into  consideration  that  the  general 
public  does  n't  care  a  copper  to  hear  any- 
thing about  their  children;  but  I'm  not  the 
general  public  where  Harry  is  concerned. 
I  '11  guarantee  to  sit  between  you  and  Henry 
and  listen  to  an  antiphonal  recital  of  every- 

19 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


thing  Harry  has  said  and  done  since  he  was 
born,  and  not  yawn  once  —  with  one  provi- 


sion." 


Harriet  flashed  him  a  look.  "I  don't  care 
to  hear  your  provision.  You  '11  not  be  called 
to  the  martyrdom." 

"And  the  provision  is,"  went  on  Ber- 
tram equably,  "that  Harry  shall  not  be 
present.  Now,  Henry,  if  you  will  kindly 
place  your  hand  over  Harriet's  mouth,  I 
will  proceed." 

Linda  stirred.  There  was  something  about 
Bertram  King's  arrogation  of  superiority 
that  always  exasperated  her. 

"How  about  my  placing  my  hand  kindly 
over  your  mouth?"  she  suggested. 

He  turned  and  looked  directly  at  her.  "I 
should  enjoy  that  very  much,"  he  returned. 

Linda  was  disconcerted  for  only  a  moment, 
then  her  provoking  smile  shone. 

"Wonderful  facilities  for  biting  me,  I  sup- 
pose," she  remarked. 

"Now,  if  the  children  will  all  be  quiet  a 
moment,"  said  Bertram,  turning  back,  "I 
will  take  up  the  cudgels  for  the  rising  genera- 
tion. One  of  the  most  charming  things  on 
earth,  probably  the  most  charming,  is  a 

20 


Hot  Tea 

child,  unconscious  of  itself;  the  most  graceful, 
the  most  winning;  untrammeled  in  their  little 
speeches  as  in  their  movements.  Then  some 
grown-up  discusses  them  in  their  presence, 
no  matter  whether  flatteringly  or  not.  Their 
grace  changes  to  awkwardness,  their  un- 
consciousness to  embarrassment,  their  free- 
dom to  reserve  or  to  resentful,  meaningless 
noises  such  as  those  with  which  Harry  lately 
favored  the  company.  Under  moments  of 
flattery  they  show  some  chestiness  and  con- 
ceit at  times,  but  for  the  most  part  they're 
stolid  under  the  infliction,  and  their  parents 
and  friends  have  lost  all  the  joy  of  their 
charm  until  they  can  forgive  by  forgetting. 
One  of  the  bitterest  leaves  of  their  tree  of 
knowledge  is  discovering  that  the  well- 
meaning  giants  around  them  are  laughing  at 
them,  not  with  them." 

"Say,  there's  something  in  that,  Harriet," 
remarked  her  husband  good-naturedly. 
"Harry  grew  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock  when 
you  told  about  his  excusing  himself  for  using 
wrong  words.  I  noticed  it." 

Linda  nodded  in  King's  direction.  "It's 
surely  a  duty  Bertram  owes  to  a  benighted 
world  to  marry." 

21 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


He  turned  to  her  again  with  the  same 
direct,  quick  movement  as  before. 

"Very  well.   Will  you  have  me,  Linda?" 

She  met  his  gaze,  finding  some  difficulty 
in  giving  her  own  just  the  right  proportion 
of  light  scorn. 

"I  should  like  to  see  myself  married  to 
you!"  she  exclaimed  slowly. 

"Would  you?"  he  responded  with  lively 
interest,  and  rising,  strode  across  to  her, 
while  she  retreated  to  the  furthest  corner  of 
her  chair.  "Then  we're  of  the  same  mind  for 
once."  He  seized  her  hand,  while  the  teacup 
in  the  other  rocked  and  tinkled  in  a  manner 
to  cause  the  liveliest  apprehension  in  its 
owner.  "Witness,  both  of  you.  Linda  and 
I  are  engaged." 

The  girl's  strong  heart  pounded  violently 
as  she  found  that  vigorous  efforts  could  not 
free  her  hand.  Color  burned  her  cheeks. 
Her  father's  factotum  had  never  seemed  to 
consider  her  affairs  or  herself  as  of  any  im- 
portance, and  her  habit  of  thought  toward 
him  was  an  effort  to  assure  him  of  absolute 
reciprocation. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  said  sharply.  "Don't 
be  silly." 

22 


Hot  Tea 

"Come  on,"  he  urged.  "Let's  give  your 
father  a  pleasant  surprise.  Henry,  Harriet, 
speak  up.  Tell  her  what's  for  her  good." 

Harriet,  the  conventional,  was  anxious 
under  the  growing  anger  in  her  sister's  dark 
eyes. 

"Behave,  Bertram,"  she  said  severely. 
"I  don't  like  joking  on  those  subjects.  Go 
back  to  your  chair  and  I'll  give  you  a  lec- 
ture much  more  sensible  than  yours  to  me." 

"I'm  not  joking.  I  believe  I  could  make 
something  fine  out  of  Linda."  He  gazed  down 
into  the  girl's  face  as  he  spoke. 

Henry  Radcliffe  laughed  derisively.  "You 
poor  nut,"  he  remarked.  "Better  not  try 
the  Cave-Dweller  stunt  on  Linda.  The  club 
would  be  likely  to  change  hands." 

The  captured  fingers  struggled  a  moment 
more,  while  the  two  pairs  of  eyes  exchanged 
their  combative  gaze. 

There  had  never  been  any  jocose  passages 
between  the  girl  and  her  father's  favorite 
co-worker.  There  had  been  moments  when 
she  had  even  felt  desire  for  his  approval.  The 
present  audacity  amazed  and  disconcerted 
her,  and  coercion  was  simply  hateful. 

Finding  effort  to  free  herself  futile,  she  set 
23 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


her  tea  down  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and 
quickly  taking  up  the  cup,  deliberately 
poured  the  hot,  creamy  liquid  over  as  much 
of  her  captor's  cuff  as  was  visible.  The  cuff 
collapsed,  the  tea  was  hot.  King  abruptly 
dropped  the  girl's  hand,  and  set  himself  to 
wiping  his  own  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Now,  will  you  be  good?"  laughed  Henry; 
but  Harriet  fixed  anxious  eyes  on  the  arm 
of  the  chair,  hoping  that  Bertram's  hand 
and  cuff  had  received  the  whole  of  the  bap- 
tism, and  groaned  within  herself  over  the 
talents  of  her  young  sister  as  a  trouble- 
maker. 

"And  who  calls  it  'the  cup  that  cheers*?" 
remarked  King  drily. 


24 


CHAPTER  III 

COLD   WATER 

JUNE  heat  dropped  down  on  Chicago 
promptly  that  year  and  caused  the  Barrys 
to  plan  to  leave  town  earlier  than  it  suited 
the  banker  to  go.  Indeed,  no  weather  condi- 
tion ever  made  Linda's  father  willing  to 
leave  business. 

One  evening,  a  few  days  before  their  in- 
tended departure,  Bertram  King  came  to  the 
house  to  see  his  employer.  The  heavy  door 
stood  open  after  the  hot  day,  and  with  the 
familiarity  of  an  intimate  he  stepped  in- 
side, intending  to  take  his  way  to  his  old 
friend's  den,  but  in  the  hall  he  met  Linda: 
Linda,  blooming,  dressed  in  white,  and  alto- 
gether lovely  to  look  upon.  Over  her  arm 
she  carried  a  silk  motor  coat  and  a  chiffon 
veil. 

The  young  man's  face  looked  haggard  by 
comparison  with  her  fresh  beauty,  and  he 
smiled  unconscious  admiration  as  he  greeted 
the  exhilaration  of  her  breezy  appearance. 

25 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Father  is  out,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  so 
glad!" 

"Why?  Did  you  want  to  see  me  alone?" 

"I  can't  see  you  at  all.    I'm  going  out." 

"But  he  has  n't  come  yet." 

"Who?" 

"Your  motoring  friend.  Why  are  you 
glad  your  father  is  out?" 

"Because  I  think  he  sees  enough  of  you 
in  the  daytime.  Too  much.  Father  's  very 
tired.  Can't  you  see  it?  I'm  going  to  run 
away  with  him  on  Saturday." 

"  So  I  hear.  —  I  'm  somewhat  seedy  my- 
self. I  think  I'll  accept  your  urgent  invita- 
tion to  sit  down  until  he  comes." 

"He  isn't  coming.  He'll  be  out  all  the 
evening." 

"I'm  talking  about  your  beau."  There 
was  an  empty,  nerveless  quality  to  the  visi- 
tor's voice  which  began  to  impress  his  com- 
panion. 

"Let's  set  a  spell,  as  they  say  in  Maine," 
he  added.  "I've  been  thinking  about  Maine 
to-day." 

Linda  followed  his  lead  into  a  reception 
room,  where  they  sat  down. 

"A  pretty  good  place  to  think  about, 
26 


Cold  Water 


when  Lake  Michigan  sizzles,"  she  replied; 
"but  I've  chosen  Colorado.  We're  going  to 
Estes  Park." 

"Yes,  so  Mr.  Barry  told  me.  I  should  like 
to  go  there  too."  King's  tone  was  wistful. 

"Perish  the  thought!"  returned  Linda 
devoutly.  "I  wouldn't  have  you  within  a 
thousand  miles  of  father." 

"That's  what  the  doctor  says,"  remarked 
King,  his  pensive  gaze  bent  on  the  ribbon 
bordering  of  Linda's  thin  frock. 

She  started  and  leaned  toward  him.  "The 
doctor!"  she  repeated.  "Has  Doctor  Flagg 
been  talking  to  you  about  father?  Is  he  — 
is  he  worried  about  him?" 

King  shook  his  head.  "  I  did  n't  go  to 
Doctor  Flagg.  I  went  to  Doctor  Young. 
We  Ve  been  getting  some  golf  together  lately, 
and  he's  a  good  sort." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Bertram?" 
Linda  sat  up  again,  and  her  voice  and  manner 
cooled.  "What  do  you  want  of  a  doctor?" 

King  shook  his  head.  "Never  in  my  life 
before:  first  offense.  Everything  seemed  to 
go  back  on  me  all  of  a  sudden.  Sleeping,  eat- 
ing, and  all  the  rest  of  it."  The  speaker 
scowled.  "The  mischief  of  it  is,  Young  says 

27 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


I've  got  to  get  away  for  a  month  at  least. 
He  says  —  Oh,  you  don't  care  what  he 
says." 

Linda  regarded  the  downcast  one.  He 
was  speaking  to  her  as  to  an  equal,  not,  as 
usual,  with  tacit  rebuke  for  some  misde- 
meanor. This  blunt  reproach,  if  it  were  re- 
proach, merely  referred  casually  to  her  in- 
difference. 

"I  care  a  great  deal,"  she  returned,  with 
spirit.  "I'm  sure  it  will  make  my  father 
very  anxious  to  have  you  away  at  the  same 
time  he  is." 

King  lifted  his  weary  eyes  to  hers,  eager 
and  bright. 

"  I  'm  sure  Doctor  Flagg  could  give  you  a 
tonic  or  something  to  tide  you  over  till  we 
return  in  September,"  she  went  on.  "You 
could  go  then." 

Her  companion  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
with  a  long,  inaudible  breath.  "We  have 
arranged  all  that.  Mr.  Barry  wants  me  to 

go." 

The  speaker  did  look  rather  cadaverous. 
Linda  realized  it  now.  It  was  a  strange 
thing  to  have  in  any  degree  a  sense  of  com- 
passion for  him :  this  masterful  man  on  whom 

28 


Cold  Water 


her  father  leaned,  the  man  who  alone  in  all 
the  world  had  a  hundred  times  without  a 
word  put  her  in  the  wrong,  and  whom  as 
often  she  had  fervently  wished  she  might 
never  see  again.  She  had  chafed  against  that 
chain  of  her  father's  reliance  which  bound 
herself  as  well.  There  was  no  escaping  King, 
and  when  in  her  busy  college  life  she  thought 
of  him  at  all,  it  was  as  a  presumptuous  crea- 
ture who  was  continually  making  good  his 
presumption;  and  what  could  be  more  exas- 
perating than  that? 

King  was  a  self-made  man,  one  with  few 
connections  in  Chicago,  one  of  whom  was 
Linda's  voice  teacher,  Mrs.  Porter.  The  girl 
never  had  exactly  understood  this  relation- 
ship, but  the  fact  that  some  of  Mrs.  Porter's 
blood  ran  in  his  veins  constituted  Bertram's 
only  redeeming  trait  in  the  eyes  of  that 
lady's  adorer.  Now  as  she  regarded  him, 
staring  with  discontented  eyes  at  the  rug,  a 
sense  came  over  her  for  the  first  time  that 
King  was  a  lonely  figure.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  a  man  in  health  to  live  at  the  Uni- 
versity Club  and  have  his  mind  and  life 
entirely  wrapped  up  in  business;  but  when 
eating  and  sleeping  became  difficult  and  the 

29 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


brain  was  over-weary,  the  evenings  might 
seem  rather  long  to  him. 

"It  serves  a  young  man  right,"  thought 
Linda,  "when  he  will  bind  himself  on  the 
wheel  of  business  and  act  as  if  there  was  not 
one  thing  in  the  world  worth  having  but 
money!"  Had  n't  she  seen  to  what  such  a 
course  had  brought  her  father?  She  spoke:  — 

"There's  a  lot  of  nonsense  in  all  this  kow- 
towing to  business,"  she  said.  "Why  do 
men  make  such  slaves  of  themselves?" 

"So  their  women  can  have  a  house  like 
this,  several  gowns  like  yours,  and  a  motor 
like  the  one  you're  going  out  in,"  responded 
King  dully. 

Linda's  rosy  lips  curled.  "Fred  Whit- 
comb's  motor  is  last  year's  model." 

Her  companion  smiled. 

"There,  you  see!"  he  remarked.  "There 's 
nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  keep  on  hustling 
so  you  can  always  have  the  latest." 

Color  flashed  over  Linda's  face,  but  she 
shrugged  carelessly. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  she  retorted,  "everything 
is  Eve's  fault." 

"Pretty  sure  to  be,"  returned  King,  nod- 
ding slowly.  "  Cherchez  la  femme.  Toujours 

30 


Cold  Water 


chfrchez  la  femme"  He  regarded  her  for  a 
moment  of  silence,  during  which  she  was  so 
uncomfortable  that  she  raised  both  hands  to 
arrange  an  imaginary  hairpin  at  the  back 
of  her  head. 

"Where  have  you  decided  to  go?"  she 
asked  at  last,  continually  warmer  under  his 
eyes,  and  wondering  if  Fred  Whitcomb  had 
had  a  puncture. 

"Why,  I  thought  it  would  be  great  to 
spend  long  Colorado  days  in  the  saddle  with 
you." 

"Did  you  really?"  Linda's  little  laugh 
had  a  most  discouraging  note. 

"Yes,  but  Dr.  Young  jumped  on  that.  He 
said  I  must  n't  go  within  gunshot  of  your 
father." 

Linda  shook  her  head.  "I  should  advise 
you  not  to  myself.  I  'm  a  pretty  good  shot." 

King  looked  up.  "It  would  be  great, 
though.  Think  of  having  you  through  with 
all  this  college  foolery,  and  having  plenty  of 
time  to  talk  to  you." 

The  girl's  eyes  brightened.  "Pray,  did 
you  consider  Yale  foolery?" 

"A  lot  of  it,  yes,"  replied  King,  wearily; 
"but  never  mind,  Linda,  we're  through  with 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


all  that.  I  thought  of  the  long  days  out  there 
in  Estes  Park,  the  divine  air,  'the  dark  pilas- 
ters of  the  pines,'  and  you,  sparkling  and 
radiant,  on  a  good  horse,  and  I  with  time 
enough  to  tell  you  how  I  love  you!" 

"Bertram!"  Linda  shot  rather  than  rose 
to  her  feet,  and  her  eyes  launched  arrows. 

"Sit  down.  Sit  down.  I  shall  have  to 
stand  if  you  don't,  and  I  'm  dog-tired. 
Did  n't  you  know  I  loved  you,  Linda, 
honest  now?" 

The  girl  sank  into  her  chair.  She  was  try- 
ing to  think  of  the  crudest  way  to  crush 
him.  She  opened  her  lips  once  or  twice  to 
speak  and  closed  them  again.  King  regarded 
her  immovably,  his  worn  look  meeting  her 
vital  gaze. 

"Your  taste  in  jokes  is  very  poor,"  she 
said  at  last,  and  her  tone  was  icy,  "and  you 
may  rest  assured  that  no  regard  for  you  will 
prevent  my  telling  my  father  exactly  what 
you  have  said." 

"You  need  n't.  He  knows  it,"  returned 
King.  His  voice,  which  had  brightened, 
relapsed  into  nervelessness. 

"My  father  knows  it!"  The  girl  could 
not  restrain  the  exclamation. 

32 


Cold  Water 


"Yes,  of  course.  I  believed  you  did,  upon 
my  honor.  I've  had  so  little  time,  you  see, 
and  you've  been  so  busy." 

He  seemed  so  innocent  of  offense  that  her 
anger  gave  way  to  the  habitual  exasperation. 

"Bertram  King,"  she  said,  —  and  if  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  stormy  dignity  her  manner 
expressed  it,  —  "I  believe  the  grind  of 
business  has  dried  up  your  brains.  I  could 
count  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand  the  occa- 
sions on  which  you  have  expressed  even  ap- 
proval of  me."  Her  nostrils  dilated  as  she 
spoke. 

Her  companion's  solemn  visage  suddenly 
beamed  in  a  smile.  "You  remember  them, 
then,"  he  returned,  with  a  pleased  naivete 
which  nearly  wrecked  her  severity;  but  she 
held  her  pose. 

"You  dared  to  speak  to  my  dear  father  — 
I  think  you  have  him  mesmerized,  I  really 
do  —  you  dared  to  speak  to  him  seriously  of 
—  of  —  caring  for  me,  when  you  have  criti- 
cized nearly  every  move  I  have  made  at 
home  for  four  years." 

"Have  I?  I  don't  remember  saying  any- 
thing discourteous  to  you." 

"You  did  n't  need  to,"  retorted  Linda.  She 
33 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


did  n't  wish  to  snap,  she  wished  to  freeze, 
but  old  wounds  ached.  "Your  actions,  your 
looks,  were  quite  enough." 

"My  looks?"  repeated  King  mildly.  "I'm 
sure  you  exaggerate.  It  must  have  been 
these  glasses :  the  wrong  shape  or  something." 
He  took  them  off  and  regarded  them  criti- 
cally. 

"I  hate  your  jokes!"  retorted  the  girl, 
hotly. 

"Hate  what  you  like  so  long  as  it  is  n't 
me!" 

"It  is  you!"  The  words  came  with  em- 
phasis. 

"Then  you  do  like  me."  King  nodded. 
"It's  an  admission." 

"You  disgust  me  with  your  silliness,"  she 
returned,  turning  away.  "I  wonder  what 
has  become  of  Fred  Whitcomb."  She  rose 
and  swept  to  the  bay  window. 

King  followed  her. 

"Fred  's  a  good  fellow.  I  always  liked 
Whitcomb,"  he  said. 

Linda  made  no  response  to  this.  She 
scanned  the  road  anxiously  up  and  down. 

There  was  another  interim  of  silence; 
then : — 

34 


Cold  Water 


"Your  father  would  be  pleased,  Linda," 
ventured  King.  "He  said  so." 

"You  hypnotize  him.  /  said  so.  My 
father,"  she  added  with  scorn,  —  "my  father 
like  me  to  marry  a  man  who  always  dis- 
approved of  me?" 

"Is  that  why  you  try  to  hate  me?"  asked 
King  thoughtfully.  "I  have  disapproved  of 
you  a  good  many  times,  but  I  do  think  that 
—  considering  everything  —  you '  ve  done 
very  well." 

Linda,  the  all-conquering,  the  leader,  the 
criterion,  turned  upon  the  speaker  a  gaze  of 
amazement;  then  she  laughed. 

"How  kind!  You  overwhelm  me." 

"Yes,  I  do  really  think  so.  Considering 
your  beauty,  your  strength,  your  easy  fi- 
nances, your  college  crushes,  your  empress- 
like  reign,  you've  done  pretty  well  to  con- 
sider others  as  much  as  you  have." 

"Others?"  the  echo  came  crisply.  "What 
others?" 

"Your  father  mainly." 

"My  father!"  Linda  faced  him  now,  and 
sparks  were  flying  from  the  brown  eyes. 
"Bertram  King,  I  adore  my  father!" 

"Yes,  I  know,  — when  you  have  time." 
35 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"What  —  what  is  it?  Would  you  have 
had  me  not  go  to  college?" 

"No,"  —  King  spoke  in  a  reasonable 
tone,  —  "you  did  right  to  go  to  college." 

"Thank  you  —  a  thousand  times."  The 
crisp  waves  of  the  speaker's  hair  seemed  to 
snap  as  on  a  cold  night  while  she  bowed  her 
thanks. 

King  played  with  his  glasses;  and  she 
turned  quickly  back  to  the  window  in 
order  that  he  should  not  see  that  sudden 
tears  quenched  the  fire  in  her  eyes.  Her 
father's  preoccupied  face  rose  before  her. 
Was  it  true  that  she  had  ever  neglected 
him  ?  A  habit  of  sighing  unconsciously  had 
recently  grown  upon  him.  She  had  noticed 
that,  and  also  that  in  late  months  new 
lines  of  harassment  had  come  in  his  face. 
Never  mind,  she  was  going  to  run  away 
with  -him,  devote  herself  to  him,  far  from 
this  man  who  dared  to  comment,  [and  to 
pick  flaws  in  her  behavior.  He  should  never 
see  her  change. 

"I  did  want  to  do  some  riding  with  you, 
Linda.  The  idea  comes  to  me  like  a  pic- 
ture or  a  poem  when  I  think  of  those 
forests :  — 

36 


Cold  Water 


' —  here  and  there  in  solemn  lines 
The  dark  pilasters  of  the  pines 
Bore  up  the  high  woods'  somber  dome; 
Between  their  shafts,  like  tapestry  flung, 
A  soft  blue  vapor  fell  and  hung.' 

Nice,  is  n't  it?" 

"On  what  bond  issue  did  you  find  that?" 
inquired  Linda,  tapping  the  window  pane 
with  restless  fingers,  and  watching  impa- 
tiently for  her  laggard  cavalier. 

"I  told  Dr.  Young  I  wanted  to  play  with 
you  and  your  father,  but  he  said  Mr.  Barry 
and  I  did  n't  know  how  to  play." 

"He  was  quite  right." 

King  regarded  his  companion's  averted, 
charming  head  with  a  pale  smile.  "You 
know,"  he  remarked  after  a  little,  "we  can 
love  people  while  seeing  their  imperfections." 

"Not  I !  I  love  only  perfection." 

King  gave  a  noiseless  whistle,  and  raised 
his  eyebrows.  "I'm  so  glad  I'm  perfect," 
he  said  at  last. 

Linda  looked  around  at  him  slowly.  How 
pale  he  was !  Ripples  of  the  flood  of  tender- 
ness that  had  bathed  the  thought  of  her 
father  flowed  grudgingly  toward  her  com- 
panion, as  he  stood  there  in  the  long  twi- 
light, regarding  her  with  lack-lustre  eyes. 

37 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"There  are  pines  outside  of  Colorado," 
she  remarked. 

"That's  what  Mrs.  Porter  says." 

"Mrs.  Porter?"  Linda  echoed  him  with 
interest;  "but  she  has  left  town.  I  went 
to  the  studio  yesterday,  and  she  's 
gone;  gone  to  Maine  without  letting  me 
know." 

"You've  been  pretty  hard  to  locate,  re- 
member. She  told  me  she  was  going." 

Linda  sighed.  "If  she  could  have  gone 
West  with  Father  and  me,  it  would  have 
been  perfect." 

"I'm  said  to  resemble  Maud  very 
strongly,"  suggested  King. 

Linda  regarded  him  with  quick  appraise- 
ment. "I  never  thought  of  it."  She  turned 
back  to  the  window.  "I  can  quote  poetry, 
too,  when  I  think  of  her.  The  other  day  I 
found  a  verse  that  fits  her:  — 


'He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind, 
And  reared  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so  strong, 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same: 
What  a  fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he  may 
The  boundless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man  survey.' 

38 


Cold  Water 


A  man  named  Daniel  wrote  that.  Is  n't  it 
perfect?" 

"H'm,"  agreed  King.  "A  Daniel  come  to 
judgment.  Maud  likes  you  very  much,"  he 
added. 

"She  loves  me,  thank  you,"  flashed 
Linda,  against  his  tepid  speech. 

"Then  it  runs  in  the  family.  I  've  told  her 
how  I  felt  toward  you  myself." 

"And  told  her  all  my  faults,  I  suppose." 
The  girl  bit  her  lip. 

"Oh,  I  knew  she  could  see  those.  Maud 
is  very  penetrating."  Fire  and  dew  flashed 
at  him  again.  "Linda,"  he  added  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone,  "Whitcomb  can't  be  much 
longer.  Do  you  know  I'm  asking  you  to 
marry  me?" 

An  inarticulate  sound  from  his  companion, 
and  continued  drumming  on  the  window  pane. 

"I  came  to  your  father's  employ  ten  years 
ago.  I  climbed  the  ladder  slowly,  but  just 
three  years  and  eight  months  ago  I  reached 
the  rung  from  which  I  could  see  you."  A 
pause.  "You've  haunted  me  ever  since." 

"Unintentional,  I  assure  you."  But 
Linda,  her  cheeks  burning,  could  not  look 
around  again.  In  her  tumult  of  hurt  pride 

39 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


and  indignation  there  penetrated  a  strain  of 
triumph. 

"Certainly,"  returned  King;  "you  had 
other  things  to  attend  to,  and  so  had  I. 
You've  attended  to  them  with  vast  credit, 
and  your  father  will  tell  you  that  I  'm  not  so 
bad.  Now  a  new  chapter  begins.  Probably 
no  one  will  ever  love  you  as  comprehend- 
ingly  as  I  do." 

"I  should  n't  think  of  marrying  any  one 
who  did  n't  consider  me  perfect,"  an- 
nounced Linda  clearly. 

"Remember  the  chromo  that  goes  with 
me  —  Mrs.  Porter.  Maud  would  be  your 
cousin."  King  dangled  his  eyeglasses  as  he 
made  the  suggestion,  and  regarded  a  short 
curl  of  hair  that  had  dropped  against  his 
companion's  white  neck. 

Linda  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "I  sup- 
pose you'll  poison  her  mind  against  me  now," 
she  said. 

"No.  You've  poured  hot  tea  and  cold 
water  on  my  budding  hopes,  but  I  'm  strictly 
honorable;  and  besides,  I'm  going  to  remem- 
ber that  both  douches  are  good  for  plants. 
Ask  your  father  if  I  know  how  to  hang  on  to 
a  proposition." 

40 


Cold  Water 


Silence.  Linda's  strong  heart  beat  against 
her  ribs  as  the  man  came  a  step  nearer  to  her. 

"Don't  you  touch  me!"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  touching  you, 
Linda.  I  just  wanted  to  fix  your  hair.  Some- 
thing has  fallen  down  here;  just  wait,  I  see 
a  hairpin." 

The  girl  preserved  her  pose  under  the 
caressing  hands  for  a  second,  but  he  fumbled 
the  soft  lock,  and  she  suspected  him. 

"That  will  do,"  she  said,  jerking  her  head 
away. 

"Oh,  well,  I  fixed  it.  You  might  thank  me, 
going  out  as  you  are." 

"I  should  think  Fred  had  fallen  dead!" 
she  exclaimed. 

"Yes;  Maud  prescribes  Maine  for  me. 
She  knows  the  lay  of  the  land  pretty  well 
up  there.  She  says  she  has  known  it  for 
thirty  years.  I  think  that's  an  exaggeration, 
don't  you?" 

"I  don't  know  how  old  she  is,  and  I  don't 
care;  I  only  know  that  it  must  have  nearly 
killed  her  husband  to  die  and  leave  her." 

King  rocked  back  and  forth  on  his  toes. 
"I've  heard  that  it  did,  entirely,"  he  re- 
sponded. 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Linda  gave  her  head  a  quick  shake.  "No 
wonder  I  say  idiotic  things!"  she  exclaimed. 
"It's  catching!-  Fred!  Fred!"  The  sud- 
den call  was  a  cry  of  relief,  and  the  girl 
quickly  stepped  out  of  an  open  glass  door 
upon  the  piazza,  and  hurried  down  the  steps. 
A  motor  had  stopped  beside  the  walk. 
King  caught  up  his  hat  and  followed  her. 

"  I  thought  you  'd  never  come ! "  cried 
Linda,  to  the  joy  of  the  distracted  chauffeur. 

"Great  Scott!  I  thought  I  never  would 
either!"  he  responded. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?  Climbing 
trees?"  asked  King.  "Linda  and  I  had 
nearly  decided  to  be  reckless  and  go  to  a 


movie." 


"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  averred  Linda,  "but 
I  had  begun  to  believe  all  four  were  punc- 
tured." 

"One  was,"  admitted  Whitcomb,  "and 
I've  had  a  dozen  delays."  And  he  gnashed 
his  teeth  over  a  wasted  hour  of  June  as  he 
handed  his  fair  one  into  the  front  seat. 

"Whither  away?"  inquired  King. 

"To  the  North  Shore,"  responded  Whit- 
comb,  with  fire  in  his  eye  which  portended 
speeding. 

42 


Cold  Water 


"Drop  me  at  the  club,  then,  will  you, 
Freddy?"  And  without  waiting  for  the  as- 
sent Bertram  landed  in  the  tonneau  as  the 
car  started. 

In  front  of  the  University  Club  he  de- 
scended, and  stepped  forward  beside  Linda. 

"I  may  not  see  you  again,"  he  said,  stand- 
ing between  the  wheels,  hatless,  and  holding 
her  hand.  "Have  a  good  time.  If  you  send 
me  a  picture  postal,  it  will  be  all  off  between 


us." 


"What  did  he  mean?"  asked  Whitcomb, 
as  with  a  whirr  and  a  jerk  they  were  on  their 
way  again. 

"Why,  I'm  going  to  Colorado  with  my 
father;  or  he 's  going  with  me.  He 's  tired." 

"Well,  he  has  nothing  on  King,"  re- 
marked Freddy.  "Never  saw  any  one  run 
down  as  that  chap  has  the  last  month. 
He'd  better  get  some  smaller  collars.  Don't 
you  care,  Linda!  Send  me  a  picture  postal, 
and  I'll  frame  it." 

The  look  that  accompanied  this  outburst 
was  lost  on  the  adored  one.  She  was  trying 
to  remember  if  Bertram  King's  collar  had 
looked  too  large. 

The  University  Club  was  a  lonely  place! 

43 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   JUNE    NIGHT 

LINDA  enjoyed  the  long  flight  under  the 
June  stars  between  the  waves  of  the  fresh- 
water sea  and  the  star-filled  lagoons  of 
Lincoln  Park,  and  returned  late  to  the  dark 
house  on  the  avenue. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  look  so  in- 
hospitable!" she  exclaimed,  as  her  escort  ran 
with  her  up  the  steps.  "  I  wonder  why  Sedley 
did  n't  light  up." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  in  and  look  under 
all  the  beds  for  you?"  asked  Whitcomb 
gayly. 

"No.  Father's  bound  to  be  in  one  of 
them  by  this  time.  I  'm  afraid  to  look  at  my 
watch.  You  should  n't  have  kept  me  out  so 
late,  Freddy.  You  know  it  was  against  my 
will." 

He  could  see  her  dimples  in  the  starlight. 
They  had  been  dear  to  him  in  grammar 
school;  dear  to  him  all  the  years  while  he  was 
bereft  of  them  at  Harvard. 

44 


The  June  Night 


"If  I  could  keep  you  always!"  he  ejacu- 
lated, in  a  lower  tone. 

"Against  my  will?"  she  laughed.  "How 
about  your  promise,  Freddy?" 

"Yes,  I  know  I  did,"  was  the  incoherent 
response,  "but  you're  going  away  —  and  — 
are  you  sure  you  don't  feel  a  bit  —  not  the 
least  bit  different,  Linda?" 

She  shook  her  head  at  the  pleading  tone, 
and  its  low  vibration  set  some  chord  within 
her  to  stirring.  The  sudden  vision  of  Ber- 
tram King  rose  before  her,  dangling  his  eye- 
glasses and  watching  to  see  what  she  would 
say  and  how  she  would  say  it.  Freddy  had 
none  of  Bertram's  hateful  way  of  taking 
things  for  granted.  He  was  all  that  was 
manly  and  humble  and  appealing.  She  could 
see  in  the  dim  light  his  square,  strong  hands 
clenched,  and  she  felt  again  King's  slender 
fingers  on  her  hair;  insolent,  presumptuous: 
a  man  who  had  never  courted  her. 

She  liked  Whitcomb  so  much.  She  ap- 
proved of  him  so  deeply. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  gone  with  you  to- 
night," she  said,  and  the  gentle,  regretful 
voice  was  so  unlike  Linda  Barry  that  it 
frightened  her  devoted  suitor. 

45 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"No,  no.  No,  no!"  he  exclaimed  quickly, 
taking  a  fresh  grip  on  the  situation.  "I  as- 
sumed all  the  responsibility.  I  have  n't  for- 
gotten it." 

His  teeth  closed,  and  the  two  regarded  one 
another.  She  again  contrasted  his  athletic 
build  and  efficient  effect  with  King,  very 
much  to  the  latter' s  disadvantage. 

"Oh,  Freddy!"  she  exclaimed  appealingly, 
and  her  fingers  locked  together,  "there  are 
so  many  nice  girls."  She  paused,  but  he 
was  silent.  "I  should  just  love  your  wife,  I 
know.  What  fun  we  would  have  together!" 

"Afraid  not,  Linda.  Three 's  a  crowd." 
A  sudden  thought  corrugated  the  speaker's 
forehead.  "Were  you  thinking  —  thinking 
of  making  it  a  quartette?" 

"What  an  idea!" 

The  corrugation  remained.  "I've  been 
suspecting  that  that  dry-as-dust  King  would 
pounce  on  you  as  soon  as  you  left  school." 

"Really,  Freddy,  your  language — " 

Linda's  cheeks  flushed.  Were  not  the  boy- 
ish words  extremely  graphic ! 

"Well,  would  n't  it  occur  to  any  one?  He 
must  have  some  human  moments  when  the 
machine's  resting,  and  he  has  eyes  in  his  head. 

46 


The  June  Night 


Each  man  of  us  wants  the  best  of  everything, 
and  are  n't  you  the  best  of  everything? 
I  don't  care  a  hang  for  your  father's  money. 
I  got  a  raise  last  week." 

"Bless  your  dear  heart,  Freddy!" 
"Don't!"  The  young  fellow  winced. 
"I  abhor  that  big-sister  tone  of  yours. 
King's  hand  in  glove  with  your  father. 
Everybody  says  Barry  &  Co.  take  on  noth- 
ing that  King  does  n't  sanction,  and  your 
father  is  some  business  man,  as  you  may 
know.  I  only  hope  he  won't  ever  regret  such 
absolute  faith.  I  know  I  bought  something, 
and  —  well,  I  believe  it 's  shaky  to  tell  the 
truth,  and  I  've  begun  to  wonder  if,  after  all, 
King  is  such  a  wizard.  But  —  all  this  is 
nothing  to  you.  I  just  want  to  be  sure  that 
if  I'm  not  the  leading  man  it'll  be  some- 
body with  more  flesh  and  blood  than  King, 
somebody  gaited  more  like  myself,  only  a 
better  man.  If  I've  got  to  give  you  up,  I 
want  it  to  be  to  a  better  man,  Linda;  not 
to  a  long-legged, cadaverous, conceited  prig!" 
"Why,  Freddy,  Freddy!"  Bertram  was  all 
that.  Why  should  Linda  object  to  hearing 
it  in  good  nervous  English?  "I  had  no  idea 
you  disliked  Bertram  so,"  she  said. 

47 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Did  n't  you  think  he  had  his  nerve  to 
start  out  with  us  to-night?  I  don't  under- 
stand how  he  was  able  to  make  me  feel  that 
way,  but  somehow  it  was  just  as  if  he  said: 
4  Yes,  you  have  my  permission  to  take  her 
driving  this  once.  Be  good  children  and 
enjoy  yourselves." 

Linda  laughed.  "Imaginative,  too!  Why, 
I'm  learning  a  lot  about  you  to-night;  and 
here  I  was  thinking  you  were  an  open 
book!" 

"Not  if  you  did  n't  know  I  was  imagi- 
native," declared  Whitcomb.  "If  I  should 
tell  you  of  some  pictures  I  draw  — " 

He  came  a  step  nearer,  and  the  girl  shrank. 

"Good-night!"  she  exclaimed;  "Father's 
pretty  indulgent,  but  if  he  should  wake  up 
he  might  be  worried.  Good-night;  I've  had 
such  a  good  time,  Freddy."  She  gave  him 
her  firm,  brief,  boyish  hand-shake,  and 
glided  within  the  door.  It  was  still  open  and 
the  house  not  lighted!  Then  her  father  — 

"Linda,  I'm  in  here,  daughter." 

The  voice  came  from  the  reception  room, 
where  earlier  she  had  talked  with  King. 

With  a  swish  of  her  motor  coat  the  girl 
turned  and  entered  the  room,  noting  in- 

48 


The  June  Night 


stantly  and  with  relief  that  her  father  was 
leaning  back  in  an  armchair  in  the  corner  of 
the  dark  room  farthest  from  the  window. 
Then  he  had  not  overheard  Whitcomb's 
talk. 

"Why  are  n't  you  in  bed?  Were  you  wor- 
ried, dear?"  she  asked  repentantly.  "These 
June  nights  are  all  like  day,  aren't  they?" 
She  hurried  forward,  and  sitting  on  the  arm 
of  her  father's  chair  drew  his  head  toward 
her  and  kissed  his  forehead,  taking  one  of 
his  hands  into  her  lap.  "One  has  n't  sense 
enough  to  go  in  on  such  a  night.  We  left 
Sheridan  Road  as  lively  as  if  it  were  noon. 
Really  I  don't  know  what  time  it  is  now. 
Is  it  awfully  late?  I'm  sorry  if  I  worried 
you." 

"No,  little  one."  The  reply  was  gentle 
and  abstracted.  "I  knew  you  were  all 
right.  I  knew  you  were  with  Fred." 

"Why,  how  did  you  know  it?"  The 
sprightly,  fresh  voice  sounded  gay  after  the 
tired  one. 

"Bertram  told  me." 

"Bertram!"  The  ejaculation  was  accus- 
ing. "Where  have  you  seen  him?" 

"At  the  office." 

49 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


s  "The  office!  Of  all  places  this  glorious 
night!  Father,  dear,"  reproachfully,  "I 
thought  you  went  off  with  Mr.  Radcliffe  to 
paint  the  town.  That's  what  he  told  me. 
How  could  Bertram  get  hold  of  you?  I'd 
have  made  Freddy  tie  him  to  our  machine  if 
I  had  suspected  such  a  thing." 

"Mr.  Radcliffe  had  some  business  to  talk 
over,  and  the  data  were  at  the  office." 

The  utter  weariness  of  the  reply  made  the 
fresh  face  cling  again  against  the  speaker's 
gray  head. 

"But  Bertram  came  here  to  find  you." 

"Yes,  I  got  him  at  the  club." 

Linda  gave  an  inarticulate  exclamation. 
"Oh,  does  n't  it  just  do  me  good  to  think 
how  soon  you'll  be  where  offices  and  Ber- 
trams are  unknown!"  she  said  slowly. 

The  man  in  her  embrace  lifted  her  hand  to 
his  lips  in  silence. 

"You're  the  stunningest  thing  on  horse- 
back that  was  ever  seen,"  she  went  on,  "and 
the  only  time  you'll  be  out  of  the  saddle  is 
when  you're  in  bed." 

Silence. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?"  she 
mumbled  against  his  hair.  "Did  you  know 

50 


The  June  Night 


I  was  good-looking?"  she  added  after  a 
pause,  lifting  her  head  and  squeezing  him. 

"Yes,  child." 

"Oh,  Father,  don't  be  so  meek!  Say 
something  nice  and  impudent,  or  I'll  think 
you're  too  tired,  and  take  you  away  to- 
morrow. I  was  leading  up  tactfully  to  thank- 
ing you  for  being  the  best-looking  man  in 
Chicago  so  your  daughter  could  have  a 
nice  nose."  She  burrowed  the  feature  into 
his  thick  hair,  and  kissed  it  again. 

"You're  my  darling  girl,"  he  said  soberly. 
"You've  been  a  joy  to  me  ever  since  you 
were  born." 

"Hurrah  for  us!"  ejaculated  Linda.  "I've 
been  no  kind  of  a  joy  compared  to  what  I  'm 
going  to  be.  Now  I  have  all  this  school 
business  off  my  hands,  I'm  going  to  trail 
you — just  dog  your  footsteps.  Now,  don't 
say  that  I  won't  be  near  so  much  of  a  joy 
that  way,  because  I  can  think  of  more  ways 
to  make  you  have  a  good  time  than  you 
dream  of  now!" 

"You  are  n't  the  sort  of  girl  who  stays  with 
Father  long." 

"Do  you  mean  marriage?  My  dear  sir, 
don't  you  know  that  handsome  girls  are 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


far  less  apt  to  many  than  the  nice,  common- 
place, cozy  ones  with  turn-up  noses?  I 
admit  coyly  that  I'm  something  of  a  peach, 
but  I'm  going  to  stay  with  you." 

"Have  you  ever  thought,"  —  the  question 
came  gravely,  —  "have  you  ever  thought  of 
—  Bertram?" 

Color  mounted  richly  over  the  face  against 
the  gray  hair. 

"Thought  of  him!  I  should  say  so!  The 
most  critical,  disagreeable,  nosey  man;  always 
interfering  and  —  and  trying  to  make  people 
over  into  his  mold.  It  never  occurs  to  him 
that  his  ideas  could  be  anything  less  than 
perfection." 

"Pm  surprised  to  hear  you  speak  so," 
came  the  monotonous  voice,  "and  disap- 
pointed too." 

"Father,  dear,  don't!  You  make  me  sad! 
When  I  know  you've  come  into  this  tired 
condition,  just  working  for  me,  —  that's  one 
of  the  pleasant  things  Bertram  said  to  me 
to-night." 

"He  was  wrong.  It  was  n't  working  for 
you,  Linda.  Remember  that.  Money-mak- 
ing gets  to  be  a  disease.  A  millionaire  should 
be  satisfied;  but  the  multi-millionaires  are 

52 


The  June  Night 


ahead  of  him,  and  the  game  is  exciting." 
There  was  no  excitement  in  the  colorless 
voice.  "Mere  prosperity  palls.  He  takes 
chances,  hoping  and  expecting  to  do  great 
things  for  himself  and  every  one  involved 
with  him.  There 's  the  pinch.  He  should 
never  allow  others  to  take  chances  with 
him.  That's  criminal." 

"Oh,  *well."  Linda  opposed  a  light  tone 
to  what  she  considered  the  morbidity  of 
over-fatigue.  Her  heart  reproached  her 
for  not  having  seen  the  symptoms  long 
ago.  She  should  have  thrown  up  college 
and  taken  her  dear  one  away  long  ago. 
Resentment  against  King  again  flared  up 
in  her.  His  had  been  daily  companionship 
with  her  father.  How  could  he  have  let  it 
come  to  this! 

"If  Barry  &  Co.,"  she  went  on,  "should 
ever  have  a  setback,  they  would  simply  deal 
out,"  —  she  gestured  as  if  dealing  cards,  — 
"deal  out  to  the  little  people  and  make  up 
their  losses.  That  would  be  Barry  &  Co.'s 
way,"  she  added  proudly. 

Her  father's  next  words  were  irrelevant, 
and  came  after  a  short  silence. 

"I'm  surprised  that  you  give  Bertram 
S3 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


such  a  bad  character.    He  is  unconscious  of 
offending  you,  I'm  sure." 

"Oh,  Daddy,  dear,  don't  bother  about 
that.  I  don't  hate  him,  you  understand. 
It's  only  that  he  is  flint  and  perhaps  I'm 
steel.  At  any  rate,  there  are  fireworks  when 
we  mingle  in  society." 

"Not  flint  at  all,  Linda.  He  loves  you." 
"A  queer  sort  of  love,  then.  It  is  n't  so 
much  what  he  says,  dear,"  —  Linda's  cheeks 
were  burning,  —  "it's  that  compelling  — 
oh,  sort  of  —  well,  compelling 's  the  best 
word,  —  that  always  wants  to  —  to  guide  me; 
and  I  won't  be  guided  by  anybody  but  you. 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Daddy,  you  have  n't  any 
son,  and  I  'm  going  to  be  your  son  after  this. 
If  you  're  very  good  for  two  whole  weeks 
after  we  get  out  to  Colorado,  and  don't 
say  one  word  about  business,  after  that  I'll 
get  you  to  tell  me  all  about  your  affairs,  and 
I'll  put  my  whole  mind  on  understanding 
them.  You  know,  Daddy,  I  have  a  good 
head  for  mathematics  and  for  business  gen- 
erally, —  truly  I  have.  This  is  n't  bluffing. 
If  you'll  take  a  little  pains  with  me,  you'll 
find  Bertram  is  n't  the  only  one  you  '11  con- 
fide in.  I  think  I'd  like  business.  My  heart 

54 


The  June  Night 


is  n't  much  to  boast  of,  but  my  head,  now, 
when  it  comes  to  my  head  —  Thank 
Heaven,  Bertram  will  be  where  he  can't 
write  to  you  about  anything  but  fish. 
Mrs.  Porter  has  persuaded  him  to  go  to 
Maine.  Just  think  what  she  did,  Daddy. 
She  went  off  without  saying  a  word  to 
me.  I  went  down  to  the  studio  and  there 
was  no  one  there  but  a  caretaker,  pack- 
ing up.  The  calendar  had  n't  been  torn  off, 
so  I  tore  off  a  leaf  and  wrote  her  a  mes- 
sage on  the  date  I  was  there.  It's  a  calen- 
dar of  Bible  promises,  and  this  one  was, 
'When  thy  father  and  thy  mother  forsake 
thee,  then  the  Lord  will  take  thee  up.'  I 
added  something  about  her  inhumanity  in 
forsaking  me." 

"Why  —  why,"  —  Mr.  Barry's  brow 
wrinkled,  —  "I'm  afraid  I've  been  remiss. 
I  paid  the  bill  for  your  lessons,  and  when 
she  sent  back  the  receipt  she  wrote  something 
about  having  tried  to  get  you  on  the  'phone, 
but  that  you  were  too  popular,  and  that  she 
was  going  East  to  tell  your  aunt  that  you  were 
a  good  girl." 

"Then  she  has  gone  to  the  Cape!"  ex- 
claimed Linda,  with  interest.  "I  remember 

55 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


when  Aunt  Belinda  was  here  at  Christmas 
Mrs.  Porter  talked  about  it  with  her." 

"Yes,"  responded  Mr.  Barry,  "and  I 
think  the  plan  is  for  Bertram  to  join  her 
there  if  —  when  he  can  go." 

"Right  away,  won't  he?"  demanded  Linda 
eagerly.  "His  doctor  says — " 

"Yes,  poor  Bertram,"  said  Mr.  Barry 
slowly,  "he  does  need  it;  but,  little  one,"  — 
he  patted  Linda's  hand  slowly,  —  "we  can't 
either  of  us  go  quite  so  soon  as  we  expected." 

"Now,  Father!"  exclaimed  the  girl  acutely. 

"Something  very  important,  Linda,"  — 
his  voice  increased  as  he  repeated  it,  —  "very 
important.  I  think  we  must — "  he  rose; 
"but  it's  late.  We  must  go  upstairs  now, 
little  one." 

His  repetition  of  the  term  of  affection  im- 
pressed Linda.  It  was  associated  with  sad- 
ness. She  remembered  how  often  he  had 
used  it  during  the  week  that  her  mother  died. 

"I  shall  read  you  to  sleep,  dear.  Please 
let  me,"  she  said  as  they  rose. 

"No,  no  need  of  that.  Go  to  bed,  little 
girl.  I  '11  lock  up.  Good-night,  daughter." 

He  put  his  arms  around  her,  and  she 
clung  to  him,  kissing  him  again  and  again. 

56 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    CAPE 

MAINE.  Mrs.  Porter  loved  the  very  word. 
Always  when  the  train  left  the  North  Station 
in  Boston  she  sank  into  her  chair  with  a 
sense  of  shaking  off  the  cares  of  life;  and 
to-day  the  smile  she  gave  the  porter  as  he 
placed  her  suit-case  beside  that  chair  was 
valued,  even  by  him,  more  than  the  coin  she 
placed  in  his  hand. 

The  cares  of  life  in  her  case  were  repre- 
sented by  a  busy  music  studio,  where,  luckily 
for  her,  every  half-hour  was  a  busy  one; 
but  there  were  the  pupils  who  did  n't  supply 
their  own  steam,  but  had  to  be  urged  labori- 
ously up  the  steeps  of  Parnassus;  there  were 
those  in  whom  a  voice  must  be  manufactured 
if  it  ever  appeared;  and  those  whose  talent 
was  great  and  whose  application  was  fitful; 
those  whose  vanity  was  fatuous,  and  those 
whose  self-depreciation  was  a  ball  and  chain ; 
those  who  had  been  badly  taught  and  who 
must  be  guided  through  that  valley  of  humili- 

57 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


ation  where  bad  habits  are  overthrown. 
Taking  into  account  all  the  trials  of  the  pro- 
fession, any  voice  teacher  in  Mrs.  Porter's 
place  to-day  might  give  a  Boston  and  Maine 
porter  a  seraphic  smile  as  if  he  were  opening 
to  her  the  gate  leading  to  Elysian  Fields 
where  pianos  and  vocalises  have  no  place. 

"That  woman  sure  do  look  happy,"  was 
the  soliloquy  of  this  particular  red-cap  as 
he  pocketed  the  silver  and  left  the  car. 

The  traveler  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with 
a  glorious  sense  of  unlimited  leisure,  and 
prepared  to  recognize  the  landmarks  grown 
as  familiar  to  her  as  the  scenes  on  the  Illi- 
nois Central  suburban  railroad. 

Probably  none  of  her  pupils  save  Linda 
Barry,  although  there  were  other  hero- 
worshipers  among  them,  would  deny  that 
Mrs.  Porter's  nose  was  too  short,  her 
mouth  too  wide,  and  her  eyes  too  small; 
but  the  kindly  lips  revealed  such  even 
teeth,  and  the  eyes  such  light,  that  no  one 
commented  on  Maud  Porter's  looks,  nor 
cared  what  shape  her  nose  was.  One  saw,  as 
she  leaned  back  now  in  her  chair,  that  her 
brown  hair  was  becoming  softly  powdered 
with  gray.  Her  eyes  half  closed  as  the  ei- 

58 


The  Cape 

press  train  gained  speed,  flying  away  from 
care,  and  her  humorous  lips  curved  as  she 
considered  the  mild  adventure  on  which  she 
was  embarking. 

When  Miss  Belinda  Barry  had  visited  her 
brother  during  the  holidays,  she  had  dropped 
some  remarks  concerning  her  home  which 
had  roused  Mrs.  Porter's  curiosity  and 
interest.  The  idea  had  been  growing  on  her 
all  the  spring  that,  instead  of  going  out  as 
usual  to  one  of  the  islands  in  Casco  Bay, 
she  would  explore  this  corner  of  the  main- 
land from  whence  had  sprung  the  Chicago 
financier.  She  had  not,  however,  communi- 
cated since  with  Miss  Barry.  She  did  not 
wish  that  lady  to  feel  any  responsibility 
for  her. 

A  picture  of  Linda's  aunt  rose  before  her 
mind  as  she  reflected.  Tall,  thin,  with  a 
scanty  coiffure  and  long  onyx  earrings. 
These  ornaments  Miss  Barry  had  donned  in 
her  youth,  and  declined  to  renounce  with 
the  fashion;  so  that  when  they  began  to 
be  worn  again  by  the  daring,  they  gave  her 
the  effect,  as  Linda  had  confided  to  her 
teacher,  of  being  "the  sportiest  old  thing  in 


town." 


59 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


The  naturally  severe  cast  of  Miss  Barry's 
features,  Mrs.  Porter  had  always  observed, 
rather  increased  in  seventy  when  the  good 
lady  looked  at  her  niece,  and  that  holiday 
visit  had  been  a  strain  on  both  sides. 

It  was  happy  history  repeating  itself  when 
the  traveler  alighted  to-day  at  the  Union 
Station  in  Portland.  The  same  involuntary 
wonder  rose  within  her  that  any  face  could 
look  harassed,  ill,  or  care-worn  here.  It 
was  Maine.  It  was  the  enchanted  land !  the 
land  of  pines,  of  unmeasured  ocean,  of  su- 
pernatural beauty  in  sunset  skies;  of  dream- 
ful days  and  dreamless  nights. 

She  smiled  at  her  own  childish  ignoring  of 
the  seamy  side  of  existence  as  evidenced  in 
the  look  of  many  of  the  crowd  hurrying 
through  the  busy  clearing-house  of  the 
station.  She  beamed  upon  a  porter  who  took 
her  to  a  waiting  carriage  —  a  sea-going 
hack,  Linda  would  have  called  it  —  and 
drove  to  a  hotel.  She  would  not  risk  arriv- 
ing in  the  evening  in  a  locality  where  the 
only  inn  might  be  that  of  the  Silver  Moon. 

Till  supper  time  —  it  would  be  supper, 
she  considered  exultantly  —  she  wandered 
up  Congress  Street  to  some  of  her  favorite 

60 


The  Cape 

shops.  Undeniably  there  are  other  streets  in 
Portland,  but  to  the  summer  visitor  the 
dignified  city  is  much  like  a  magnified  vil- 
lage with  one  main  street  where  its  life 
centers. 

Maud  Porter  entered  one  shop  after  an- 
other, repressing  with  difficulty  her  longing 
to  tell  every  clerk  how  happy  she  was  to  be 
back,  and  enjoying  all  over  again  the  good 
manners  and  obligingness  of  everybody. 

Next  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was 
over,  she  made  her  inquiries  and  took  her 
train.  It  was  one  that  stopped  at  every  sta- 
tion, and  when,  after  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  of  this  sauntering,  she  alighted  on  a 
desolate  and  unpromising  platform,  her  first 
thought  was  to  inquire  in  the  small  depot 
for  the  first  train  back.  The  little  house 
seemed  to  be  deserted  for  the  moment, 
however,  and  she  observed  an  elderly  man 
with  a  short  white  beard,  who,  with  trousers 
tucked  into  his  boots  and  thumbs  hooked 
in  his  armholes,  stood  at  a  little  distance, 
regarding  speculatively  the  lady  in  the  gray 
suit  and  floating  gray  veil.  Near  where  he 
was  standing  a  carryall  was  waiting  by  the 
platform. 

61 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


In  Mrs.  Porter's  indecision  she  looked 
again  within  the  weather-beaten  station,  then 
across  at  the  motionless,  weatherbeaten  face. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  one  in 
here,"  she  said. 

"I  cal'late  Joe's  out  in  the  shed  luggin' 
wood,"  responded  the  man.  His  pleasant 
tone,  his  drawl,  the  sea-blue  of  his  eyes, 
caused  her  to  move  toward  him  as  the  needle 
to  the  magnet.  She  knew  the  type.  All  the 
suspended  Maine  exhilaration  rushed  back 
upon  her.  How  clean  he  was!  How  rough! 
How  adorable! 

"I've  come,"  she  said,  gazing  up  into  the 
eyes  regarding  her  steadily,  and  said  no 
more. 

"Want  me  to  haul  ye?"  he  asked  kindly, 
not  changing  his  position. 

"Yes." 

"Where  to?" 

"I  don't  know."  The  sunlight  of  her 
smile  evoked  a  grin  from  him. 

"Come  on  a  chance,  have  ye?" 

"Yes.  So  did  you,  I  should  think.  No- 
body but  little  me  getting  off  here." 

"No,  't  ain't  time  for  'em  really  to  come 
yet." 

62 


The  Cape 

"Who?   Summer  people,  do  you  mean?" 

"Yes.  Folks  is  beginnin'  to  think  they 
like  it  down  here;  but  we  don't  take  sum- 
mer boarders  to  the  Cape,  ye '11  have  to 
know  that." 

A  prodigious  wink  enveloped  one  sea-blue 
eye. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry."  Mrs.  Porter's  smile 
vanished  in  her  earnestness.  "Wouldn't  — 
would  n't  your  wife,  perhaps  — " 

"Have  n't  got  none." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry." 

"I  ain't.  Ben  glad  on 't  always.  Hain't 
ever  repented." 

"Then  you  mean  you  never  were  married." 

"That 's  what  I  mean."  The  speaker 
nodded  as  if  to  emphasize  a  triumph. 

"But  isn't  there  some  one  in  your  — 
your  village  —  I  suppose  it's  a  village,  is  n't 
it?" 

"Should  n't  wonder  if  't  was." 

The  visitor  tasted  that  "'twa-a-as"  with 
appetite,  and  echoed  it  mentally. 

"Some  one  who  would  take  a  boarder  if 
—  if  I  want  to  stay?"  The  monotonous 
landscape  was  not  inviting. 

"Wall,  for  accawmodation's  sake  I  cal'late 
63 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


they  would;  but  it's  only  for  accawmoda- 
tion's  sake,  ye  understand."  The  speaker 
winked  again.  "The  Cape  don't  take 
boarders." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  laughed  the  visitor.  "But 
you  must  have  expected  somebody.  You  're 
here." 

"Usually  git  somebody.  I  haul  'em  for 
hard  cash,  not  for  accawmodation's  sake,  so 
ye  see  I'm  on  hand." 

"I  should  hope  so.  What  should  I  have 
done  if  you  had  n't  been  here?" 

"Oh,  they'se  a  car  you  could  git  over 
there  a  little  piece."  The  speaker  unhooked 
one  thumb  and  gestured. 

"  I  'd  far  rather  go  with  you,  Mr.  —  Mr. — " 

"Holt.  Jerry  Holt.  Most  folks  forgit  the 
Mister.  Shall  I  take  yer  bag?" 

It  was  standing  where  Mrs.  Porter  had 
descended  from  the  train,  and  Jerry  un- 
hooked his  thumbs  and  clumped  across  the 
platform  in  the  heavy  boots  in  which  he 
had  gone  clamming  that  morning. 

Maud  Porter,  her  spirits  high,  entered  the 
old  carryall.  She  suddenly  decided  not  to 
mention  her  acquaintance  with  Miss  Barry, 
but  to  pursue  her  way  independently. 

64 


The  Cape 

Deliberately  her  companion  placed  her 
bag  in  the  carriage,  then  lifted  the  weight 
which  anchored  his  steed  to  duty,  and  took 
his  place  on  the  front  seat,  half  turning  with 
a  sociable  air  to  include  his  passenger.  "Git 
ap,  Molly,"  he  remarked,  and  Molly  some- 
what stiffly  consented  to  move. 

"You  have  a  nice  horse,"  remarked  his 
passenger  fatuously.  She  knew  her  own 
folly,  but  reveled  in  it.  Pegasus  himself 
could  not  have  pleased  her  at  this  moment 
so  well  as  Jerry  Holt's  bay.  It  proved  that 
her  remark  was  the  open  sesame  to  her 
driver's  heart. 

"There's  wuss,"  he  admitted.  "Ye  see 
me  lift  that  weight  jest  now?  It's  nonsense 
to  use  it,  but  Molly's  a  female,  after  all, 
and  in-gines  comin'  and  goin'  might  git  on 
her  nerves;  but  take  her  in  the  ro'd,  now, 
that  hoss,  she  ain't  afraid  o'  no  nameable 
thing!"  The  sea-blue  eyes  met  his  listener 
with  a  challenge. 

"Not  autos  even?"  with  open  admiration. 

Jerry  Holt  snorted.  "Shoot!  She  looks 
down  on  'em.  Miss  —  Miss  — " 

"Oh,  excuse  me.  I  forgot  you  did  n't 
know  me.  I'm  Mrs.  Porter,  from  Chicago." 

65 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Chicago,  eh?  We've  got  a  neighbor  out 
there.  Barry  his  name  is.  A  banker.  Ever 
hear  of  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly." 

"Sister  lives  here  still.  We  all  went  to 
school  together." 

They  were  driving  on  a  good  road  between 
green  fields,  and  Mrs.  Porter  scented  the 
crisp  sea  air. 

"There's  a  handsome  new  house  started 
over  there,"  she  said,  indicating  a  hill  which 
was  to  their  left.  "Who's  building  that?" 

"Wall,  now,"  the  driver  responded  in  his 
slow,  mellifluous  tones,  "I  couldn't  tell  ye 
—  sudden." 

Mrs.  Porter  leaned  back  in  the  carriage 
with  a  sigh  of  ineffable  contentment,  and 
thought  of  the  corner  of  State  and  Madison 
streets. 

In  a  minute  more  the  glorious  blue  of 
the  ocean  came  in  sight,  and  scattered  cot- 
tages, which  with  delightful  irregularity  were 
set  down  at  random,  some  of  them  sur- 
rounded with  trees  and  shrubs. 

Mrs.  Porter  leaned  forward  with  spark- 
ling eyes. 

"Don't  take  me  anywhere  just  yet,"  she 
66 


The  Cape 

said.  "Drive  about  a  little.  Have  you 
time?" 

"Plenty,"  declared  her  companion. 
"Hain't  got  to  go  to  the  station  only  once 
more  to-day.  Git  ap,  Molly." 

"Oh,  let  her  walk  if  she  wants  to.  This  is 
beautiful!" 

The  Cape  ran  out  into  the  sea,  bearing  light- 
houses, and  was  bordered  with  high,  jagged 
rocks  among  which  the  clear  waves  rushed 
and  broke  in  gay,  powerful  confusion.  As 
they  neared  the  water  the  visitor  observed 
on  the  side  toward  the  ship  channel  a  cot- 
tage whose  piazza  touched  the  rocks.  The 
hill  upon  which  it  stood  ended  abruptly  at 
the  water,  and  daisies  waved  in  the  inter- 
stices of  the  natural  sea-wall. 

"Who  is  the  lucky  woman  who  lives  cling- 
ing to  the  rocks  like  that?"  asked  Mrs. 
Porter,  indicating  the  shingled  house  with 
her  slender  umbrella. 

"That?  Oh,  that's  Belinda  Barry's  cot- 
tage. Might's  well  live  in  the  lighthouse  and 
done  with  it,  I  say;  but  she's  got  a  spyglass 
and  likes  to  watch  the  shippin'.  See  the  New 
York  bo't  out  there  comin'  in  now?  There! 
Hear  her  blow?  Bet  Belinda's  got  her  eye 

67 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


on  her  this  minute.  Seems  if  Belinda  set  on 
them  rocks  a  lot  when  she  was  a  girl,  and  had 
a  cottage  in  the  air,  ye  might  say,  'bout  livin' 
there  some  day;  so  when  her  brother  began 
to  have  more  money  'n  he  knew  what  to  do 
with,  he  give  Belinda  that  place.  Nobody 
else  wanted  it,  I  can  tell  ye  that.  When  I  'm 
ashore  I  'd  ruther  be  ashore,  myself." 

A  man  with  a  bucket  of  clams  passed  their 
slow-moving  carriage,  and  looked  curiously 
at  Mrs.  Porter. 

"Hello,  Cy,"  said  Jerry  Porter,  jerking  his 
head  toward  the  other's  nod. 

The  visitor  looked  after  the  figure  in  the 
dilapidated  coat.  "That  man  had  a  fine 
head,"  she  said. 

"H'm,"  ejaculated  the  other.  "A  pity 
there  ain't  more  in  it." 

"Oh,    is    the    poor    creature  —  do    you 


mean — " 


"Oh,  no,  not  so  bad  as  that;  but  ye  know 
how  there  are  some  folks  no  matter  what 
they  try  at,  they  're  allers  poundin'  and  goin' 
astern.  Cy's  that  kind." 

"It's  a  mercy  there  are  always  clams," 
said  Mrs.  Porter,  and  Jerry  Holt's  sea-blue 
eyes  twinkled  at  her. 

68 


The  Cape 

The  visitor's  plans  for  independence  sud- 
denly weakened.  That  cottage  clinging  to 
the  rocks  was  undermining  it  more  swiftly 
the  further  the  carriage  advanced. 

"I  believe,  Mr.  Holt,  you'd  better  leave 
me  at  Miss  Barry's,"  she  said  suddenly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  a  bit  o'  use," 
he  replied.  "She  won't  even  accawmodate 
ye,  let  alone  takin'  a  boarder.  Belinda  ain't 
stuck  up.  Her  worst  enemy  can't  say  it 
changed  her  a  mite  to  have  a  brother  that 
eats  off  gold  plates.  She  was  always  jest  that 
way." 

"What  way?" 

"Oh,  high-headed  ye  might  call  it.  I 
dunno  exactly  what;  but  Belinda  allers 
claimed  to  steer;  and  now  she  lives  to  Port- 
land winters  in  any  hotel  she 's  a  mind  to, 
she  don't  act  a  mite  different  from  what  she 
allers  did,  though  lots  o*  folks  claim  she 
does.  'T  ain't  no  use,  though,  Mis'  Porter, 
your  goin'  there.  I'd  —  I 'd  kind  o'  hate  to 
have  Belinda  refuse  ye." 

The  speaker  cast  a  kindly  glance  at  his 
passenger,  who  smiled  back  at  him  appre- 
ciatively. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  do  know  Miss  Barry. 
69 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


I  met  her  in  Chicago,  and  I  '11  just  stop  for  a 
call,  and  she'll  advise  me  where  to  go;  for 
I  tell  you  I  'm  going  to  stay,  Mr.  Holt,  even 
if  you  have  to  let  me  sleep  in  your  carryall. 
Why  have  n't  you  a  nice  wife,  now,  who 
would  take  me  in?" 

"That's  jest  why.  'Cause  that's  the 
specialty  o'  wives,  and  I  did  n't  want  to  be 
took  in." 

Mrs.  Porter  laughed,  and  the  carryall  drew 
up  beside  Miss  Barry's  sunlit  piazza.  She 
opened  her  purse.  "How  much,  Mr.  Holt?" 

"Well,  I'll  have  to  charge  ye  twenty-five 
cents  for  this  outin',"  he  returned  with  delib- 
erate cheerfulness.  "One  minute,  till  we  see 
if  Miss  Barry's  to  home." 

He  got  out  upon  the  piazza  and  knocked 
on  the  cottage  door,  opening  it  at  the  same 
time. 

"Belinda!  "he  called. 

"Leave  it  on  the  step,"  came  a  loud  voice 
from  the  back  of  the  house. 

"Hear  that?"  he  grinned,  turning.  "She's 
home,  and  I'm  to  leave  ye  on  the  step." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Porter, 
alighting.  Jerry  Holt's  clean,  rough  hand 
assisted  her,  and  lifted  out  her  suit-case. 

70 


The  Cape 

"I'm  perfectly  charmed  to  be  left  on  the 
step,"  she  added,  handing  her  guide  a 
quarter,  which  he  pocketed  with  a  nod. 
"I'll  try  not  to  envy  the  girl  who  sat  on 
these  rocks  and  built  a  cottage  in  the  air 
that  came  to  earth." 

"She's  welcome  to  it,  welcome  to  it,"  ob- 
served Jerry,  as  he  climbed  back  into  the 
carriage.  "When  I'm  to  sea  I  want  to  be  to 
sea.  When  I'm  ashore  I  druther  be  to 
shore." 

"Did  you  ever  go  to  sea?" 

"Cap'n  of  a  schooner  fifteen  year  or  more." 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  ?  You  're  Captain 
Holt,  of  course." 

"Oh,"  he  shook  his  head,  "hain't  got 
nothin'  to  steer  but  Molly  now."  He  smiled, 
nodded  a  farewell,  and  turned  his  horse 
around  with  many  a  cluck  of  encourage- 
ment. 

The  sound  of  departing  wheels  was  lost 
in  the  swish  of  surf  on  the  rocks.  Maud 
Porter  stood  looking  seaward.  Again  the 
New  York  boat  in  the  distance,  lost  to  sight 
now,  boomed  its  signal  to  smaller  fry  as  it 
advanced  to  the  harbor.  The  rioting  wind 
carried  her  thin  gray  veil  out  straight.  She 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


heard  the  house  door  open,  and  turned  to 
meet  the  surprised  gaze  of  Miss  Barry,  in  a 
checked  gingham  gown,  but  with  her  scanty 
coiffure  and  long  onyx  earrings  precisely  as 
she  had  seen  them  last. 

Mrs.  Porter  smiled  radiantly,  and  cap- 
tured her  streaming  veil. 

"I'm  what  he  left  on  the  step,"  she  said. 

Miss  Barry's  surprised  gaze  grew  uncer- 
tain. There  was  a  familiar  look  about  this 
radiant  face,  but  where  — 

"Was  you  one  of  the  Portland  Aid  — "  she 
began. 

"No,  no!"  Mrs.  Porter  stepped  forward 
and  held  out  both  her  hands.  "Don't  let 
my  suit-case  frighten  you,  dear  Miss  Barry. 
I  've  only  come  to  call.  Remember  last 
Christmas  in  Chicago,  and  Linda's  teacher, 
Mrs.  Porter?" 

"Mrs.  Porter!"  exclaimed  Miss  Barry, 
letting  her  hand  be  captured  in  the  two  out- 
stretched ones.  "Do  excuse  me!"  Her  face 
beamed  welcome.  She  had  liked  Linda's 
voice  teacher,  and  when  Belinda  Barry  liked 
a  person  it  was  once  and  forever.  "Come 
right  into  the  house  this  minute,"  she  said 
cordially.  "I'm  ashamed  o'  myself!" 

72 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    SHINGLED    COTTAGE 

Miss  BARRY'S  hard,  kindly  hands  helped  re- 
move the  visitor's  hat  and  veil,  although  Mrs. 
Porter  repeated  her  declaration  that  she  had 
come  only  for  a  call. 

"You're  going  to  stay  to  dinner  with  me," 
returned  the  hostess.  "I  always  do  have 
enough  for  two." 

Her  lips,  which  had  returned  to  their 
rather  grim  line,  twitched  a  little  as  she 
spoke,  and  Maud  Porter  glanced  about  the 
living-room  with  its  old-fashioned  furniture 
and  rag  rugs.  Beyond  was  the  dining-room, 
divided  from  this  only  by  an  imaginary  line, 
and  the  table  stood  ready  set  for  one. 

"You  live  here  all  alone?"  asked  the 
visitor. 

"Not  half  as  alone  as  I'd  like  to  be.  I 
don't  mind  the  fish  and  the  barnacles,  but 
it's  the  folks  coming  to  the  back  door.  Sit 
right  down,  Mrs.  Porter." 

"Don't  let  me  detain  you  if  you  were 
73 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


getting  dinner."  The  caller  laughed.  "How 
about  these  folks  that  come  to  the  front  door; 
the  things  Captain  Holt  leaves  on  the  step?" 

"Oh,  I'm  in  no  hurry.  I'm  going  to  sit 
right  down  with  you  now.  Things  are  stew- 
ing out  there.  There's  nothing  to  hurt." 

Miss  Barry  suited  the  action  to  the  word. 
Mrs.  Porter  regarded  her  with  curious  in- 
terest as  she  sank  into  a  rocker  with  chintz 
cushions.  The  hostess's  narrow  face,  usually 
as  devoid  of  expression  as  a  mask,  was  now 
lighted  by  pleasure. 

"How  comes  it  you  did  n't  let  a  body 
know?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  going  to  be  so  wonderfully  inde- 
pendent! I  was  going  to  come  to  the  Cape, 
and  find  a  place  to  live,  and  then  some  day 
saunter  over  to  your  cottage  bareheaded,  and 
surprise  you." 

"And  all  you  accomplished  was  the  sur- 
prise, eh?" 

"That's  it,  and  it's  entirely  your  fault.  I 
was  driving  about  with  Captain  Holt  to  see 
the  lay  of  the  land,  when  suddenly  the  rocks 
and  the  water,  and  this  cottage  perched  on 
them  like  a  gull's  nest,  did  something  to  me. 
I  don't  know  what.  I  think  it  gave  me  a 

74 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


brain-storm.  When  he  told  me  you  lived 
here,  what  could  I  do  but  rush  in  to  con- 
gratulate you?" 

Miss  Barry's  lips  twitched  again.  "I  ain't 
any  gull,  I  will  maintain  that,  but  —  it  is 
sightly,  ain't  it?" 

"Wonderful.  Nothing  less  than  wonderful. 
But  in  a  storm,  Miss  Barry?" 

"Yes,  the  windows  are  all  spray  then,  and 
the  waves  try  to  swallow  me  up,  and  I  can't 
hear  myself  think,  but  —  " 

"Yes,"  —  Mrs.  Porter  nodded  as  the  other 
hesitated,  —  "I  understand  that  'but.'" 

"How'd  you  leave  my  brother?" 

"Very  tired." 

"That  so?  Would  n't  you  think  he'd 
come  up  here  and  rock  in  the  cradle  o'  the 
deep  awhile?  You  write  him  about  that 
hammock  out  there." 

Mrs.  Porter  looked  out  through  the  open 
window  toward  the  end  of  the  porch,  where 
a  hammock  hung. 

"The  doctor  says  Colorado,"  she  replied. 

"Doctor?  Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  Miss 
Barry  frowned  questioningly.  "Lambert 
never  writes.  I  don't  care  for  his  stenog- 
rapher's letters,  and  he  knows  it.  If  he  can't 

75 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


take  time  to  write  himself,  let  it  go."  The 
speaker  threw  her  head  to  one  side,  as  if  dis- 
posing of  the  matter  of  fraternal  affection. 

"Linda  is  blooming,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Porter. 

Miss  Barry's  lips  took  a  thinner  line.  "Let 
her  bloom,"  she  responded  dryly;  and  her 
visitor  laughed  again. 

"Does  n't  she  write  either?" 

"I  should  say  not." 

"It  will  be  less  difficult  now  she's  out  of 
college,"  said  Mrs.  Porter  pacifically.  "Those 
girls  are  absolutely  occupied,  you  know." 

"Never  play  at  all,  I  presume,"  returned 
her  hostess,  with  a  curling  lip. 

"Oh,  I  would  n't  say  that." 

"Better  not  if  you  care  where  you  go  to. 
—  No,"  after  a  slight  pause,  "I  understand 
my  niece  a  good  deal  better  than  she  thinks 
I  do.  It's  enough  that  she  scorns  her  own 
name.  She  was  named  for  me.  Belinda's 
been  good  enough  for  me,  and  she 's  no 
business  to  slight  the  name  her  parents  gave 
her." 

"Oh,  Linda  is  such  a  free  lance,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter  apologetically;  "and  *  Linda'  sounds 
so  breezy,  so  —  so  like  her.  '  Belinda '  is 

76 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


quaint  and  demure,  and  —  and  you  know, 
really,  she  is  n't  demure!" 

"Not  a  great  deal,"  agreed  Miss  Barry 
curtly.  "I'm  sorry  my  brother  is  n't  well," 
she  added. 

"These  business  men  let  themselves  be 
driven  so.  You  remember  my  cousin  Ber- 
tram King.  He  and  Mr.  Barry  have  been 
worn  down  in  the  same  vortex,  and  both  are 
ordered  away.  I  told  Bertram  Maine  was 
the  best  place  in  the  world  for  him.  As  soon 
as  I  find  an  abiding-place  I  shall  let  him 
know." 

Miss  Barry  rose  suddenly.  "  I  'm  forgetting 
that  you're  starved.  Just  excuse  me  while  I 
dish  up  the  chowder,"  she  said,  and  vanished. 

Mrs.  Porter  clasped  her  hands  and  lifted 
her  eyes. 

"Chowder!"  she  repeated  sententiously; 
then  she  too  rose,  went  to  the  open  window, 
and  stood  looking  out. 

The  tide  was  rising,  and  the  waves,  climb- 
ing higher  and  higher,  threw  white  arms 
toward  the  shingled  cottage,  as  if  claiming 
its  boulder  foundation,  and  striving  to  pass 
the  barrier  of  daisies  and  draw  the  little 
house  down  to  its  own  seething  breast. 

77 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


As  the  visitor  stood  there,  a  woman, 
bareheaded,  stepped  up  from  the  grass  upon 
the  porch,  and  giving  one  glance  from  her 
prominent,  faded  eyes  at  the  gray  figure 
standing  in  the  window,  crossed  the  piazza. 
to  the  front  door,  which  was  closed. 

Mrs.  Porter,  advancing,  opened  it,  and 
came  face  to  face  with  a  scrawny  little 
woman,  who  stood  with  her  head  apologetic- 
ally on  the  side.  Her  temples  were  decorated 
with  those  plastered  curls  of  hair  known  as 
"beau-catchers,"  and  across  the  forehead  it 
was  strained  back  and  caught  in  a  comb  set 
with  large  Rhinestones.  Her  red-and-green 
plaid  calico  dress  was  open  girlishly  at  the 
throat,  around  which  a  red  ribbon  was  tied 
with  the  bow  in  the  back. 

"Why  are  they  always  thin  here?"  thought 
Maud  Porter.  "Is  it  eating  fish?  Do  they 
never  have  to  reduce?" 

"Oh,  pardon  me!"  exclaimed  the  new- 
comer, with  such  an  elegant  lift  of  her  bony 
shoulders  that  it  twisted  her  whole  body.  "I 
expected  to  see  Belinda  —  that  is  —  pardon 
me!  —  Miss  Barry." 

"She's  in  the  kitcheh  just  at  present. 
Won't  you  come  in?" 

78 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


The  newcomer  accepted  with  alacrity,  her 
prominent  eyes  openly  scanning  Mrs.  Por- 
ter's costume. 

"  I  would  n't  have  thought  of  intruding 
had  I  supposed  Miss  Barry  had  a  guest.  I 
did  n't  notice  Jerry  brought  anybody."  An- 
other writhe,  and  a  rearrangement  of  a  long 
necklace  of  imitation  coral  beads,  which  suf- 
fered against  the  red  plaid. 

"Yes,  he  brought  happy  me,"  returned 
Mrs.  Porter,  wondering  whether,  with  the 
chowder  so  imminent,  she  should  ask  this 
guest  to  be  seated. 

The  newcomer  relieved  her  of  responsibility 
by  sinking  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"Comin'  for  the  summer?"  she  asked  hur- 
riedly, as  though  she  felt  that  her  time  was 
short. 

"I  don't  know.  It's  a  place  to  tempt  one, 
isn't  it?" 

"The  views  is  called  wonderful,"  re- 
turned the  other  modestly.  "Of  course, 
't  ain't  for  us  to  call  'em  sumtious,  but  artists 
hev  called  'em  sumtious." 

"They  deserve  any  praise,"  was  the  reply, 
and  Mrs.  Porter  gave  the  speaker  her  sweet 
smile. 

79 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"It's  very  difficult,  one  might  almost  say 
comple-cated,  for  visitin'  folks  to  find  any 
place  to  reside  on  the  Cape.  We  ain't  got 
any  hotel." 

Pen  fails  to  describe  the  elegant  action  of 
shoulders  and  eyebrows  which  accentuated 
this  declaration,  and  Mrs.  Porter's  smile 
broadened. 

"I've  understood  so,"  she  replied. 

"My  name's  Benslow,"  said  the  visitor, 
casting  an  apprehensive  glance  toward  the 
dining-room.  "I've  got  one  o'  these  copious 
houses  with  so  much  more  room  than  I  can 
use  that  sometimes  I  hev  —  I  hev  accawmo- 
dated  parties.  I  suppose  you're  from  the 
metrolopous." 

"Well,  we  think  it  is  one.  I'm  from  that 
wild  Chicago!" 

"Oh,  I  s'posed  it  was  Boston." 

Here  Miss  Barry  entered,  bearing  a  steam- 
ing tureen,  which  perfumed  the  atmosphere 
temptingly. 

"Hello,  Luella,"  she  said  quietly. 

At  the  word  the  visitor  started  from  her 
chair  with  guilty  celerity,  and  brandished  an 
empty  cup  she  was  carrying. 

"I  hadn't  an  idea  you  was  entertaining 
80 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


Belinda,  and  you  must  excuse  my  walkin' 
right  in  on  —  on  —  " 

Miss  Barry  kept  her  eyes  fixed  imperturb- 
ably  on  the  tureen,  and  turned  to  get  a  plate 
of  crackers  from  a  side  table. 

"Mrs.  Porter  is  my  name,"  said  the  guest, 
taking  pity  on  Miss  Benslow's  embarrassed 
writhings. 

"Oh,  yes,  on  Mis'  Porter.  I  just  wanted  to 
see  if  you  could  spare  me  a  small  portion  of 
bakin'  soda." 

"Why  did  n't  you  come  to  the  back  door 
as  you  do  commonly?" 

"Why  —  why,  the  mornin'  was  so  exhil- 
aratin',  I  made  sure  you  'd  be  watchin'  the 
waves,  and  I  thought  it  would  expediate 
matters  for  me  to  come  around  front."  An 
ingratiating  smile  revealed  Miss  Benslow's 
full  set. 

"Just  go  right  out  and  help  yourself, 
Luella.  You  know  where  't  is,  and  you  can 
let  yourself  out  the  back  door.  Come,  Mrs. 
Porter,  the  chowder's  good  and  hot." 

It  was,  indeed.  Miss  Benslow's  prominent 
eyes  rolled  toward  the  white-clothed  table 
as  she  passed  it,  and  inhaled  the  tantalizing 
fragrance.  She  would  presently  go  home  and 

81 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


eat  bits  of  cold  mackerel  with  her  old  father, 
at  the  oilcloth-covered  table  in  the  kitchen. 
Neither  he  nor  she  was  a  "good  provider." 

Miss  Barpy  laughed  quietly  to  herself  as 
she  and  her  guest  sat  down. 

"Luella  did  get  ahead  of  me,"  she  said 
appreciatively.  "I  don't  know  how  she  slid 
by.  Her  uniform  never  blends  with  the 
landscape,  either.  Perhaps  she  climbed  under 
the  lee  of  the  rocks." 

"Oh,  why  does  she  wear  those  beads  with 
that  frock?"  asked  Mrs.  Porter,  accepting  a 
dish  of  chowder. 

"I  guess  if  we  could  find  that  out  we'd 
know  why  she  does  lots  of  things,"  returned 
the  hostess. 

"Simply  delicious,"  commented  Mrs.  Por- 
ter, after  her  first  mouthful.  "Do  show  me 
how  to  do  it,  Miss  Barry." 

"Surely  I  will;  but  serve  it  after  an  early 
start  from  Portland  and  a  ride  across  country 
with  the  wind  off  the  sea.  That's  the  sauce 
that  gives  the  finishing  touch." 

"Why  are  all  the  people  in  Maine  thin? 
Is  it  fish  ?  You  all  have  the  best  things  to  eat, 
yet  you  never  get  cushiony  like  us." 

Miss  Barry  cast  a  glance  across  at  the 
82 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


round  contours,  so  different  from  her  own 
angles. 

"  I  think  a  bit  of  upholstery  helps,  myself," 
she  remarked. 

"Now,  that  Miss  Benslow  —  why,  she's 
really  —  really  bony." 

"Yes,"  responded  Miss  Barry,  eating 
busily,  "but  she's  got  beauty  magazines 
that's  full  of  directions  how  to  reduce,  and 
she's  delighted  with  her  bones.  Unlucky  for 
her  father,  because  she  might  do  more  cook- 
ing if  she  believed  flesh  was  fashionable. 
Luella's  dreadfully  slack,"  added  Miss  Barry, 
sighing;  "but  so's  her  father,  for  that  matter. 
He  goes  out  to  his  traps  twice  a  day,  but  he 
would  n't  mind  his  chicken-house  if  he  lost 
the  whole  brood;  and  just  so  he  has  plenty 
of  tobacco  the  world  suits  him  all  right.  You 
know  folks  can  just  about  live  on  this  air." 

Mrs.  Porter  regarded  her  hostess  thought- 
fully. "Then,"  she  said,  "I  don't  believe 
their  house  would  be  a  very  good  place  to 
board." 

Miss  Barry  looked  up  suddenly.  "Board!" 
she  repeated  explosively.  Then,  after  a 
silent  pause,  she  added,  "Is  that  what 
Luella  came  over  for?" 

83 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Probably  not;  but  she  mentioned  —  " 
"Yes,    I   guess   she   did.     She   saw  Jerry 
bring  you  —  " 

"No,  she  said  she  did  n't  see  him  bring 


me." 


Miss  Barry  snorted.  "Luella  says  lots  o' 
things  beside  her  prayers,  and  if  she  uses 
the  same  kind  o'  language  for  them  that  she 
does  for  other  folks,  I  doubt  if  the  Almighty 
can  understand  her  half  the  time.  I  often 
think  the  futurists  ought  to  get  hold  of  her 
and  her  clothes  and  her  talk." 

Mrs.  Porter  laughed.  "Perhaps  she  was 
born  too  soon." 

"Indeed  she  was  for  her  own  comfort. 
Luella 's  as  sentimental  as  they  make  'em, 
and  she  still  feels  twenty.  Board  with  her, 
indeed!  You'd  reduce  fast  enough  then,  I 
assure  you.  Folks  have  lived  with  her  till 
they  were  ready  to  eat  stewed  barnacles; 
and  the  only  way  they  got  along  was  finally 
to  get  her  to  live  somewhere  else  and  let 
them  have  the  house  to  themselves.  They've 
done  that  sometimes,  and  Luella  and  her 
father  camped  out  in  the  boat-house,  I 
guess ;  I  don't  know  exactly  what  they  did  do 
with  themselves.  Tried  to  get  you!  Well,  I 

84 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


do  declare!  Luella's  nerve  is  all  right,  what- 
ever else  she  may  lack." 

"What  /  want  to  know,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Porter,  "is,  when  she  says  the  view  is  'sum- 
tious,'  whether  she  means  'scrumptious'  or 
'*  sumptuous. " 

Miss  Barry  smiled  at  her  plate.  "Luella 
ought  to  write  a  dictionary  or  a  key  or  some- 
thing," she  said.  —  "Oh,  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  women,  anyway,"  she  added 
with  a  sigh  of  disgust. 

"Why,  Miss  Barry,  what  do  you  mean? 
They're  finer  every  year!  There  are  more  of 
them  every  year  for  us  to  be  proud  of." 

"A  few  high  lights,  maybe,"  admitted  Miss 
Barry,  "but  look  at  the  rank  and  file  of  'em. 
Look  at  the  clothes  they'll  consent  to  wear 
—  and  not  wear.  Just  possessed  with  the 
devil  o'  restlessness,  most  of  'em,  and  willing 
to  sell  their  souls  for  novelty.  Is  n't  it 
enough  to  see  'em  perspiring  under  velvet 
hats  and  ostrich  feathers  with  muslin  gowns 
in  September,  and  carrying  straw  hats 
and  roses  above  their  furs  in  February? 
I  get  sick  of  the  whole  lot.  Do  you  sup- 
pose for  a  minute  they  could  wait  for  the 
season  to  come  around,  whichever  it  is? 

85 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


H'm!"    Miss  Barry  put  a  world  of  scorn 
into  the  grunt. 

Mrs.  Porter,  as  she  accepted  a  second 
helping  of  chowder,  had  a  vision  of  Linda, 
capriciously  regnant,  and  realized  the  status 
she  must  hold  in  her  aunt's  estimation. 

"Oh,  I'm  an  optimist,"  she  replied,  "es- 
pecially when  I'm  eating  your  chowder.  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  look  out  of  these 
windows  and  not  love  everybody." 

She  regarded  her  vis-a-vis  as  she  said  it. 
It  was  hard  to  visualize  this  spare  and  hard- 
featured  woman  as  the  young  girl  who  used 
to  sit  on  these  rocks  and  build  castles  in  the 
air. 

"Mortals  are  ungrateful,  I  guess,"  was  the 
reply.  "I'm  glad  you  like  it  here." 

"It's  a  paradise  to  one  who  is  tired  of 
people  and  pianos,"  declared  Mrs.  Porter. 

"Think  you  could  look  out  of  these  win- 
dows and  love  'em  all,  do  you?"  inquired 
Miss  Barry  dryly. 

Mrs.  Porter  laughed.  "At  this  distance, 
certainly,"  she  answered.  "Some  of  them  I 
could  love  even  if  they  were  in  the  fore- 
ground," she  continued.  "I'm  very  fond  of 
Linda,  Miss  Barry." 

86 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


"A  point  in  her  favor,"  remarked  the 
hostess,  with  a  cool  rising  inflection. 

"Thank  you  for  saying  so.  One  must  make 
lots  of  allowance  for  a  girl  so  pretty,  so  rich, 
and  so  overflowing  with  life." 

"Let  her  overflow,  only  nowhere  near  me." 

"Don't  say  that.  She'll  settle  down  under 
the  responsibilities  of  life.  Do  you  remember 
my  cousin  Bertram  King?" 

"Oh,  yes.  The  long-legged,  light-haired 
fellow  that  aids  and  abets  my  brother  in 
overworking." 

"That's  the  very  one.  I  must  tell  you 
that  he's  heart  and  soul  in  love  with  Linda." 

"H'm.  I  suppose  so.  I  only  wish  she'd 
marry  him  and  live  out  on  Sheridan  Road 
somewhere,  then  I  could  live  with  my  brother 
and  take  care  of  him  winters.  He'd  get  some 
care  then.  Are  they  engaged?" 

"Oh,  no.  She's  just  out  of  school.  He 
has  n't  asked  her  yet." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?  Is  he  the 
kind  with  boiled  macaroni  for  a  backbone?" 

"No,  Bertram's  backbone  is  all  right.  He 
wanted  to  let  her  get  out  of  school.  He  has 
no  relations  but  me.  He  had  to  confide  in 
somebody." 

87 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Well,  he'll  get  all  that's  coming  to  him 
if  he  marries  her."  Miss  Barry  sniffed.  "I 
guess  if  there  was  a  prize  offered  for  arro- 
gance she'd  get  it.  I  speak  plain  because 
you're  fond  of  her,  and  you're  aware  that 
you  know  her  much  better  than  I  do,  so  I 
could  n't  set  you  against  her  even  if  I  wanted 
to;  and  /  need  somebody  to  confide  in  too." 

Mrs.  Porter  smiled.  "You'll  change  your 
tune  some  day.  Linda  has  lots  of  goods  that 
are  n't  in  the  show  window." 

Miss  Barry  nodded.  "If  she  keeps  her  dis- 
tance I  may  change  in  time.  It  all  depends 
on  that." 

The  visitor  could  picture  how  in  little 
things  the  high-spirited,  popular  girl  might 
have  shown  tactlessness  during  the  holidays, 
and  created  an  impression  on  the  taciturn 
aunt  which  it  would  be  hard  to  efface.  Words 
could  never  do  it,  she  realized,  and  wisely 
forbore  to  say  more. 

Dinner  was  over,  and  the  visitor  was  just 
considering  that  during  the  process  of  social 
dishwashing  she  could  broach  the  subject 
of  a  boarding-place,  when  Jerry  Holt's  steed 
again  approached  the  shingled  cottage.  Both 
women  discerned  him  at  the  same  moment. 

88 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


"Did  you  tell  Jerry  to  come  back  for  you? 
You  can't  go  yet,"  said  Miss  Barry. 

"I  did  n't,  but  it  might  be  a  good  plan  for 
him  to  take  me  the  rounds." 

"What  rounds?" 

"Of  possible  boarding-places." 

Miss  Barry  did  not  reply,  for  she  had  to 
answer  the  knock  at  the  door.  There  stood 
Captain  Holt,  holding  a  telegram  gingerly 
between  his  thumb  and  finger,  and  his  sea- 
blue  eyes  gazed  straight  into  Belinda's. 

"I  want  you  should  bear  up,  Belinda," 
he  said  kindly.  "There  ain't  no  other 
way."  His  voice  shook  a  little,  and  Miss 
Barry  turned  pale  as  she  took  the  sinister 
envelope. 

Mrs.  Porter  heard  his  words,  and  hastening 
to  her  hostess  stood  beside  her  as  she  tore 
open  the  telegram.  Captain  Holt's  heavy 
hand  closed  the  door  slowly,  with  exceeding 
care,  as  he  shut  himself  out. 

Mrs.  Porter's  arm  stole  around  the  other 
woman  as  she  read  the  message :  — 

Mr.  Barry  died  last  night.  Please  come  at 
once. 

HENRY  RADCLIFFE. 
89 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Miss  Barry's  limbs  shook  under  her,  and 
she  tottered  to  a  chair. 

Captain  Holt  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  piazza 
and  bit  a  blade  of  grass  while  he  waited. 

In  the  silence  a  pall  seemed  to  fall  over  the 
little  house,  broken  only  by  the  sharp  rend- 
ing apart  of  mounting  waves  against  the 
rocks. 

Mrs.  Porter  knelt  by  her  friend  and  held 
her  hands. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"   she  asked. 

"Look  in  the  desk  over  in  that  corner,  and 
find  the  time-tables  in  the  drawer." 

"I  know  the  Chicago  trains,  Miss  Barry. 
Let  me  arrange  it  all  for  you.  You  wish  to 
leave  to-night?" 

Miss  Barry  nodded  without  speech. 

Mrs.  Porter  went  out  on  the  piazza  and 
sent  Jerry  to  telegraph,  telling  him  to  return. 

"Did  you  know  my  brother  was  ill?" 
asked  Belinda,  when  she  returned,  still  with- 
out moving. 

"No.   I  thought  him  just  overtired." 

The  other  nodded.  "That's  the  way  they 
do  it.  Rush  madly  after  money  and  more 
money  till  they  go  to  pieces  all  of  a  sudden." 

The  bereft  sister's  eyes  were  fixed  on  space, 
90 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


seeing  who  knows  what  pictures  of  the  past, 
when  a  barefooted  boy  romped  with  her  over 
these  rocks  that  held  the  nest  he  had  given 
her.  Suddenly  her  far-away  look  came  back, 
and  focused  on  the  pitiful  eyes  regarding  her 
drawn,  pale  face. 

"I'm  glad  you're  here,"  she  said  simply. 

"And  I  am  so  glad,"  responded  the  other, 
her  thoughts  busy  with  Linda  and  Bertram, 
and  longing  to  fly  to  them. 

"Will  you  stay  here  in  my  cottage  till  I 
come  back?  I  have  a  little  girl  that  comes 
every  day  to  help.  She  cooks  pretty  well. 
She'll  stay  with  you." 

"Yes,  Miss  Barry."  It  was  on  the  tip  of 
the  visitor's  tongue  to  say,  "You'll  bring 
Linda  back  with  you,"  but  she  restrained 
the  words.  This  common  sorrow  would  do 
its  work  between  aunt  and  niece,  she  felt 
sure. 

There  was  no  further  inaction.  A  trunk 
was  packed,  and  Mrs.  Porter  accompanied 
the  traveler  as  far  as  Portland,  spending  the 
night  again  at  the  hotel  where  she  had  left 
her  belongings;  and  Miss  Barry  pursued  her 
sad  journey. 

Henry  Radcliffe  met  her  at  the   station 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


in  Chicago;  and  when  they  were  in  the 
motor  Miss  Barry  turned  to  him  with  dim 
eyes. 

"What  was  the  matter  with  Lambert?" 

His  pale  face  looked  excited  and  sleepless. 

"You  have  n't  seen  the  papers?" 

"No.  My  head  ached  and  I  did  n't  read 
them.  What  do  you  mean?"  Her  voice  grew 
tense. 

."Barry  &  Co.  have  gone  to  pieces." 

"What  do  I  care  for  that?  Lambert!  My 
brother!  Tell  me  of  him!" 

"  But  it  carried  a  lot  of  innocent  ones  down 
in  the  crash." 

"Oh,  my  poor  brother!  What  of  him, 
Henry?  Tell  me.  Tell  me." 

The  young  man  turned  his  head  away,  and 
his  voice  grew  thick.  "He  died  down  in  the 
office." 

"Heart  trouble?" 

"Yes.  He  never  told  us  if  he  knew  he  had 
a  weak  heart.  The  shock  was  terrible." 

The  young  man  took  his  companion's 
groping  hand. 

"Linda  is  prostrated.  We  have  had  to  save 
her  in  every  way.  Poor  Harriet!  She  has  had 
to  be  a  heroine." 

92 


The  Shingled  Cottage 


The  speaker's  voice  thickened  and  choked 
again,  and  hand  in  hand  the  two  kept  an  un- 
broken silence  until  the  motor  drew  up  be- 
fore the  house  on  Michigan  Avenue,  where 
lilies  and  ferns  hung  against  the  heavy  door. 


93 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    DAYS    THAT   FOLLOWED 

DURING  the  monotonous  days  following  the 
funeral,  Miss  Barry  and  her  niece  dwelt 
alone  in  the  big,  echoing  house.  Harriet 
had  gone  home  to  her  husband  and  child. 
The  papers  still  resounded  with  the  Barry 
tragedy,  but  it  was  not  difficult  to  keep  them 
from  Linda,  whose  stormy  grief  had  changed 
to  utter  listlessness. 

One  morning  Miss  Barry  sat  by  the  win- 
dow in  her  niece's  room  with  some  mending, 
while  Linda,  in  her  white  negligee,  dragged 
herself  about  the  apartment  as  if  all  the 
spring  in  her  supple  young  body  had  grown 
flaccid.  Occasionally  the  older  woman 
glanced  over  the  rim  of  her  glasses  at  the 
girl's  expressionless  face.  Miss  Belinda  her- 
self felt  numbed  by  shock,  but  there  was 
present  with  her  the  instinctive  necessity 
which  all  had  felt,  of  standing  between 
Linda  and  a  complete  understanding  of  the 
situation. 

94 


Ever  since  the  girl's  breakfast  tray  had 
been  removed  that  morning  they  had  re- 
mained here  in  silence. 

"There's  one  way  I  can't  make  any  mis- 
take," thought  the  aunt,  "and  that's  by 
holding  my  tongue.  She  knows  I'm  here, 
and  that  if  I  can  do  anything  for  her  I  want 
to  do  it." 

The  housekeeper  had  answered  her  appeal 
for  something  to  keep  her  hands  busy,  and 
so  she  worked  while  Linda  moved  languidly 
about,  apparently  forgetful  of  her  presence. 

While  they  still  remained  thus,  a  card  was 
brought  up. 

Miss  Barry  took  it  from  the  maid. 

"Bertram  King,  Linda,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  see  him?" 

She  was  surprised  by  the  life  which  sprang 
for  a  moment  into  the  girl's  eyes. 

"No,"  answered  Linda  clearly. 

Her  aunt  stood  undecidedly,  the  linen  in 
one  hand  and  the  card  in  the  other. 

"Shall  I  see  him,  then?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  care,  Aunt  Belinda." 

The  maid  waited,  casting  curious  glances 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"Henry  says  Mr.  King's  been  wonderful," 

95 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


said  Miss  Barry,  after  a  moment  of  waiting. 
"The  greatest  help  in  the  world:  always 
kept  his  head,  and  thought  of  the  right  thing 
to  do,  though  he  was  suffering  so." 

"I'm  not — "  Linda  tried  to  reply,  but 
her  lips  quivered,  and  she  bit  them.  "I 
can't  see  him,"  she  ended  abruptly. 

Miss  Barry  nodded  comprehension.  The 
associations  would  naturally  be  overwhelm- 
ing. 

"I'll  go  down,  then,"  she  said,  sighing, 
and  laying  down  her  work.  "I  suppose  I 
shall  tell  him  you  thank  him  for  all  he  has 
done,  and  for  the  flowers  every  day." 

"No."  Linda  faced  her  aunt,  and  again 
life  leaped  in  her  eyes.  "I'm  not  sending 
any  message.  Remember  that." 

Miss  Barry  frowned  in  perplexity,  thinking 
of  Mrs.  Porter's  confidences  concerning  King. 

"Oh,  law,"  she  thought  wearily,  "I  sup- 
pose she's  refused  him." 

So  downstairs  the  good  lady  went,  her 
black  dress  trailing  after  her,  to  the  recep- 
tion room,  where  stood  a  hollow-eyed  young 
man.  His  face  had  become  familiar  to  her 
in  the  past  days. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  King." 
96 


The  Days  that  Followed 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Barry."  His  eyes 
interrogated  her  hungrily.  "I  suppose  I 
should  apologize  for  coming  at  this  hour, 
but  I'm  so  anxious  to  know  how  Linda  is." 

"She's  up  and  about.   Sit  down." 

"Would  it  be  impossible  for  me  to  see 
her?"  The  speaker  did  not  sit,  though  Miss 
Barry  did  so.  His  wistful  eyes  were  still 
fixed  questioningly. 

"Yes,  Mr.  King.  Just  impossible.  She 
has  n't  seen  anybody.  She  does  n't  even  see 
me."  Miss  Belinda  smiled  ruefully.  "I  just 
sit  there  with  her.  I  don't  know  whether 
she  knows  I'm  there  or  not." 

Now  King  did  sit  down,  and  his  compan- 
ion proceeded:  — 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  need  to  see  you  alone, 
Mr.  King.  I  need  to  know  what  Henry 
means  when  he  says  Barry  &  Co.  have  gone 
to  pieces.  That  is  n't  so,  is  it?" 

"Yes,  practically."  King  looked  at  the 
floor,  and  locked  his  hands  together.  "A 
very  big  undertaking  has  failed,  and  it  was 
the  knowledge  that  it  was  impossible  to 
satisfy  all  the  investors  that  killed  your 
brother.  A  run  on  the  bank  put  the  finishing 
touch  to  our  misfortunes;  but  I  am  taking 

97 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


every  step  which  I  know  Mr.  Barry  would 
wish  to  have  taken,  and  the  excitement  will 
abate  when  the  public  sees  that  we  are  fellow 
sufferers." 

"Then  Linda  is  —  Linda  will  be  poor?" 
Miss  Barry  asked  it  in  hushed  tones. 

"Comparatively,  yes;  she  will  call  it  poor, 
but  I  know  Linda.  She  would  wish  justice 
done.  I  want  to  see  her.  I  must  see  her,  in 
fact,  as  soon  as  she  is  able  to  meet  me  with 
Harriet.  I  know  what  Mr.  Barry  would  wish, 
but  it  must  be  a  mutual  agreement.  I'm 
not  forgetting,  Miss  Barry,"  added  the  young 
man,  kindly,  "that  this  hits  you  financially 
too." 

"You  mean  my  allowance?  I'm  very 
thankful,  Mr.  King,  that  I  've  spent  but  little 
of  it,  and  I  have  the  home  my  dear  brother 
gave  me.  I  never  felt  perfectly  certain  that 
there  would  n't  be  any  reverses.  Business 
men  when  they  get  as  rich  as  Lambert  are 
like  aeronauts.  Who  can  tell  when  some  cur- 
rent of  wind  they  did  n't  count  on  will  strike 
their  ship?" 

"I'm  glad  you've  been  so  wise.  I  assure 
you  that  since  the  catastrophe  I  have  often 
thought  of  you." 

98 


The  Days  that  Followed 

Miss  Barry  regarded  the  speaker  kindly. 
The  difficulties  of  his  position  surged  upon 
her. 

"Have  I  told  you  I  left  Mrs.  Porter  in  my 
house?" 

"  I  knew  she  expected  to  see  you." 

"Yes;  she  was  there  when  the  message 
came,  and  she  helped  me  in  every  way. 
Best  of  all,  she  was  willing  to  see  that  nobody 
ran  off  with  my  cottage  while  I  was  gone." 

"I  wish  she  were  here  with  Linda,  though," 
said  King.  "I  believe  she  could  get  nearer 
to  her  than  anybody." 

"I  suppose  there  isn't  any  doubt,"  re- 
turned Miss  Barry  without  enthusiasm, 
"that  my  niece  will  go  to  her.  There  don't 
seem  any  doubt  that  I  ought  to  take  her 
home  with  me  and  let  the  sea  tone  her  up. 
She  may  prefer  to  stay  with  Harriet.  I 
shall  give  her  her  choice.  I  suppose  this 
house  will  be  sold." 

"I  suppose  so.  That  is  one  of  the  things 
Linda  will  have  to  help  decide." 

They  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence,  Miss 
Barry  liking  her  companion  better  and  better, 
finding  it  easy  to  believe  on  general  prin- 
ciples that  Linda  had  been  cruel  to  him. 

99 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


King  rose  suddenly  from  his  brown  study. 
"Will  you  give  her  these  flowers,  please?" 
he  said,  indicating  a  box  that  lay  on  a  chair. 
"I  shall  get  Harriet  to  arrange  a  meeting  for 
us  to  discuss  the  matters  that  are  pressing." 

Miss  Barry  rose,  and  they  looked  into 
one  another's  eyes. 

"I  had  hoped  that  it  might  be  some 
comfort  to  Linda  to  see  me,  as  one  who 
stood  so  close  to  her  father,"  said  King 
wistfully. 

Miss  Barry  found  him  pathetic. 

"Seems  to  work  the  other  way,"  she 
answered  curtly.  "Some  folks  would  think 
of  your  side  of  it.  I  can  tell  you,  though, 
Mr.  King,  the  rest  of  the  family  appreciates 
all  you  have  done  and  are  doing." 

Miss  Barry's  hand  gave  the  young  man's 
a  decided  squeeze  as  they  parted.  Her  hand- 
shakes ordinarily  were  of  the  loose  and  hard 
variety. 

She  turned  and  took  up  the  box  of  flowers. 
King's  offering  had  come  daily  among  others 
since  the  funeral,  but  Linda  would  not  allow 
any  flowers  to  be  left  in  her  room. 

"I'd  like  to  know  just  what  she  means  by 
flashing  up  at  the  mention  of  that  poor 

100 


The  Days  that  Followed 

fellow's  name,"  soliloquized  Miss  Belinda, 
as  she  mounted  the  stairs.  "Lambert's  gone 
and  left  him  to  take  the  brunt  of  the  situa- 
tion. Should  n't  wonder  if  going  down  to 
that  office  every  day  is  some  like  going  to  a 
torture  chamber." 

She  entered  her  niece's  room.  Linda  was 
sitting  before  the  dresser,  pulling  over  with 
languid  fingers  the  contents  of  a  drawer. 
Each  article  in  it  was  associated  with  happy, 
remote  days  separated  from  the  present  by 
a  cold,  dark,  impassable  gulf  —  the  gulf  of 
grief,  remorse,  and  despair.  Nothing  could 
bring  her  father  back.  Every  interest  that 
had  kept  her  from  him  loomed  hateful  in  her 
eyes.  Just  as  Miss  Barry  entered  the  room 
her  hand  had  fallen  on  a  morocco  box.  It 
contained  the  necklace  which  had  been  her 
graduation  gift  from  him.  She  had  worn  it 
at  the  dinner  dance  at  the  South  Shore 
Club. 

What  had  her  father  been  doing  that 
night?  Why  had  she  not  insisted  on  his  pres- 
ence at  the  dinner?  How  she  loathed  each 
of  those  triumphant  hours  when  the  gems 
had  risen  and  fallen  on  her  happy  breast. 
Her  head  suddenly  fell  forward  on  the 

101 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


dresser,  and  her  shoulders  heaved  in  deep- 
drawn  sobs, 

Miss  Barry  dropped  the  flower  box  on  a 
chair,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  as  she  advanced 
uncertainly.  Her  niece's  previous  reserve 
made  the  older  woman  feel  that  Linda  might 
resent  her  presence  now.  She  retreated  a 
step  toward  the  door;  but  no.  The  girl  was 
her  own  flesh  and  blood.  She  did  n't  know 
what  to  say  to  her,  and  her  own  eyes  dimmed 
under  the  repressed  agony  of  those  despair- 
ing sobs;  but  she  approached  and  put  a 
timid  hand  on  the  convulsed  shoulder. 

"Linda,  Linda,"  she  said.  "I  wish,  poor 
child,  I  could  do  something."  And  the 
tremor  in  her  voice  carried  to  the  young 
aching  heart. 

The  girl  did  not  raise  her  bowed  head, 
but  she  reached  up  one  strong,  smooth 
hand,  and  quickly  it  was  locked  in  Miss 
Belinda's. 

The  latter's  eyes  regarded  the  open  mo- 
rocco box  on  the  dresser,  and  noted  the 
lustrous  pearls  lying  on  their  white  velvet. 
"That  necklace  means  something  special, 
I  suppose,"  she  thought,  and  winked  away 
big  drops  from  her  own  sight. 

102 


The  Days  that  Followed 

"Maybe  it'll  do  you  good  to  cry,  Linda," 
she  said.  "Did  your  father  give  you  the 
beads,  dear?"  she  added  tenderly,  and  the 
smooth  hand  clutched  hers  tighter. 

After  a  minute  more  of  the  sobbing  silence, 
Miss  Belinda  reached  out  her  free  hand  and 
closed  the  morocco  box. 

"I  wouldn't  look  over  these  things  yet," 
she  said;  and  Linda  freed  her  hand,  and 
crossing  her  arms  on  the  dresser  rested  her 
head  upon  them. 

"I  never  did  anything  for  Father,"  she 
declared  in  a  choked  voice. 

Miss  Barry  thought  this  was  probably 
true,  and  she  winked  hard  in  a  big  struggle 
with  her  New  England  conscience. 

"He  didn't  think  that  way,"  she  replied 
at  last. 

"Yes.   Yes,  he  thought  that  way." 

"What  do  you  mean,  child?" 

"He  left  me."  The  words  seemed 
wrenched  from  the  depths  of  grief. 

Again  Miss  Barry's  conscience  objected  to 
making  the  sweeping  contradiction  for  which 
the  occasion  called. 

"How  could  he  help  that?"  she  asked  at 
last,  gently. 

103 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"He  could  n't  help  it,  but  perhaps  I  could 
have  helped  it,"  came  the  weary  answer. 
"If  I  had  been  more  to  him  —  filled  a  larger 
place  in  his  life  —  been  a  companion  instead 
of  just  his  pet  — " 

Miss  Barry  felt  coerced  to  extend  meager 
comfort.  "But  your  school,  Linda.  I  know 
your  time  was  all  taken  up." 

"Yes,  because  I  let  it  be.  I  Ve  wasted  four 
years  when  I  was  old  enough  to  have  been  a 
companion  to  Father." 

"Why,  you  had  visits  with  him  once  a 
week.  Supposing  you  had  gone  East  to 
college." 

"That  is  something,  no  doubt,"  returned 
Linda,  slowly  lifting  swollen  eyes  and  looking 
listlessly  out  of  the  window;  "but  I  did  n't 
make  myself  count  with  him." 

"Nonsense,  child,"  said  Miss  Barry,  try- 
ing to  speak  stoutly.  "That's  morbid,  is  n't 
it?" 

Linda  shook  her  head  slowly,  still  with  the 
dreary  eyes  looking  into  space. 

Miss  Barry  sank  into  the  nearest  chair, 
and  regarded  the  stricken  girl  helplessly. 

"I  know  you  suffer,  too,  Aunt  Belinda," 
said  the  girl,  at  last.  "I  know  I'm  selfish, 

104 


The  Days  that  Followed 

but  life  —  everything  —  seems  blotted  out 
for  me.  It  is  only  once  in  a  while  that  I  can 
feel  anything." 

Linda  recalled  her  far-away  gaze  and 
looked  at  her  aunt.  She  saw  her  now,  not  as 
a  negligible  figure  with  too-long  earrings  and 
too-thin  hair,  brushed  with  a  New  England 
thoroughness  which  concealed  rather  than 
exhibited  what  there  was  of  it.  Aunt  Belinda 
was  a  fellow  sufferer,  and  Linda  recognized 
it,  but  without  sympathy.  She  turned  back 
to  the  sorting  of  the  articles  in  the  open 
drawer.  Her  handbag  lay  there,  and  a  piece 
of  paper  projected  from  it.  She  took  out  the 
crumpled  leaf,  and  remembered  how  on  one 
of  those  remote  happy  days  she  had  gone  to 
Mrs.  Porter's  studio  and  discovered  her  de- 
parture. She  had  torn  oif  a  leaf  of  the  calen- 
dar, and  seeing  no  place  to  bestow  it  had 
crumpled  it  and  placed  it  in  her  bag.  She 
straightened  it  now,  reflecting  on  the  date, 
and  how  little  she  had  known  then  that  it 
was  one  of  the  days  she  would  now  give  half 
her  life  to  recall.  The  clearly  printed  words 
looked  up  at  her,  and  her  eyes  rested  on 
them  heavily. 

"Instead  of  the  thorn  shall  come  up  the 
105 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


fir  tree;  and  instead  of  the  brier  shall  come 
up  the  myrtle  tree." 

In  the  present  passionate  longing  to  es- 
cape from  her  nightmare,  the  words  seemed 
significant.  Oh,  if  they  could  be  anything 
but  words!  If  there  were  any  hope!  Her 
lips  moved  as  she  read  the  verse  again.  Her 
aunt  was  watching  her,  motionless,  helpless, 
dim-eyed. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  this,  Aunt  Belinda?" 
she  asked,  and  read  the  sentences  aloud  in 
her  colorless  voice. 

"I  think  I  have,"  responded  Miss  Barry. 
"It's  in  the  Bible,  I  think." 

"Yes,  it's  in  Isaiah,"  returned  the  girl, 
her  eyes  on  the  paper.  "I  tore  it  off  Mrs. 
Porter's  calendar.  It's  a  calendar  of  prom- 
ises. What's  the  use  of  promises  made 
thousands  of  years  ago?" 

Her  breath  caught  in  her  throat. 

"Mrs.  Porter  is  very  fond  of  you,  Linda," 
ventured  Miss  Barry. 

The  girl  nodded.  She  seemed  to  see  the 
soft  light  in  her  teacher's  eyes.  The  calendar 
message  would  probably  find  response  in  her 
optimism. 

"We  took  a  course  in  the  Bible  at  school," 
106 


The  Days  that  Followed 

she  went  on.  "We  had  to;  but  Mrs.  Porter 
says  she  reads  it  because  she  likes  to.  I  gave 
her  this  calendar  as  a  kind  of  a  joke." 

Miss  Barry  made  no  comment  on  the 
dreary  irreverence. 

"I  haven't  told  you,"  she  replied,  "that 
Mrs.  Porter  is  keeping  house  in  my  cottage." 

The  girl  turned  her  slow  regard  upon  the 
speaker. 

"When  the  right  time  comes,"  went  on 
Miss  Barry,  "I  want  you  should  go  back 
with  me,  Linda." 

"I  wish  to  stay  here,"  returned  the  girl 
quickly,  "and,  Aunt  Belinda,  I  don't  want 
you  to  wait.  I  know  you  must  long  to  get 
home,  and  there 's  nothing,  really  nothing, 
for  you  to  wait  for  here.  All  I  wish  is  to  be 
quiet  and  just  stay  where  — "  her  throat 
closed.  She  glanced  once  more  at  the  calen- 
dar leaf,  and  started  to  drop  it  in  the  basket, 
but  changed  her  mind  and  put  it  back  in 
the  open  drawer. 

"All  in  good  time,  Linda,"  was  the  reply. 
"Here  are  some  flowers  Mr.  King  brought 
you." 

The  girl  turned  with  a  frowning  glance 
toward  the  long  box.  "He  seems  to  have 

107 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


plenty  of  money  to  waste,"  she  said,  "in 
spite  of  Barry  &  Co.'s  troubles.  Probably 
his  own  nest  is  well  feathered." 

"Why,  my  child!"  exclaimed  Miss  Barry, 
bewildered  at  sight  of  that  strange  fire  which 
again  illumined  the  heavy  eyes.  "What  can 
you  have  against  that  poor  young  man?" 

Linda's  lassitude  seemed  to  drop  from  her 
like  a  garment.  She  rose  suddenly,  took  the 
flower  box,  and  moving  to  the  door  pushed 
it  into  the  hall  with  her  foot,  and  closed  the 
door  upon  it.  Then  she  stood,  her  back 
against  the  wall,  tall  in  her  white  garments, 
and  pressed  a  hand  to  her  throat,  choking 
with  her  sudden  passion. 

"Not  much  against  him,"  she  said  in  a 
stifled  voice,  her  eyes  shining  upon  her  be- 
wildered companion.  "Bertram  King  mur- 
dered my  father.  That's  all!" 


108 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A    BUSINESS    INTERVIEW 

Miss  BARRY'S  brow  was  troubled  as,  that 
afternoon,  in  much  harassment  of  mind,  she 
wended  her  way  to  the  home  of  her  elder 
niece.  Miss  Belinda  had  always  approved  of 
Harriet.  She  was  wont  to  declare  with  energy 
that  there  was  no  nonsense  about  Harriet. 
To-day  when  she  went  into  the  apartment  she 
found  the  young  wife  in  a  violet  tea-gown 
sorting  a  pile  of  little  stockings. 

"Harry  does  go  through  his  clothes  so," 
were  her  first  words  after  their  greeting. 

"Give  me  a  needle,  for  mercy's  sake!" 
exclaimed  Miss  Barry  avidly,  pulling  off  her 
black  gloves.  "  If  I  could  feel  for  five  minutes 
that  I  was  of  some  use,  it  would  put  flesh  on 
my  bones." 

"Then  take  off  your  hat,  Aunt  Belinda, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  we'll  have  a  cup  of  tea. 
Selma  has  taken  Harry  down  into  the  park, 
but  he'll  be  back  before  you  go.  Do  you 
know,  he  misses  Linda  dreadfully?  You 

109 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


must  tell  her  when  you  go  back.  He  was 
asking  for  her  again  this  morning.  There's 
scarcely  been  a  day  since  she  left  school  that 
she  has  n't  had  a  romp  with  him  until  — 
and  he  adores  her.  Perhaps  it  would  divert 
her  if  I  should  bring  him  over.  What  do  you 
think?" 

The  traces  of  grief  and  strain  were  still  in 
Harriet's  face,  and  she  asked  the  question 
with  solicitude. 

Miss  Barry  seated  herself  by  the  dainty 
workstand,  and  seizing  the  little  stockings 
with  eagerness  shook  her  head. 

"I  find  my  best  way  is  not  to  think,  Har- 
riet," she  said  emphatically.  "Linda  acts 
like  a  sleep-walker  most  of  the  time,  but  this 
morning  she  got  to  looking  over  some  things 
in  her  bureau  drawer,  and  she's  been  crying 
her  eyes  out." 

Harriet  dashed  away  a  quick  tear  as  she 
sat  opposite  her  aunt,  replacing  a  button  on 
a  little  white  blouse. 

"I  do  want  to  get  her  away  from  here,  and 
I  broached  the  subject  this  morning,  but 
she  took  fright  at  once."  Miss  Belinda's 
busy  needle  ran  in  and  out  of  the  spot  where 
a  small  active  toe  had  peeped  through. 

no 


A  Business  Interview 


"I  wish,"  replied  Harriet,  "that  there  were 
something  in  the  world  she  must  do.  There's 
no  such  blessing  at  a  time  like  this  as  not  to 
be  able  to  brood.  A  husband  and  baby  have 
rights  that  can't  be  put  aside.  I  do  wish 
Linda  cared  for  some  one  of  the  men  who 
admire  her.  I  don't  believe  there's  one  who 
would  let  the  changes  in  her  fortune  weigh 
with  him  at  all.  I  hope,  Aunt  Belinda,  it 
does  n't  hurt  your  feelings  to  see  me  wearing 
this  colored  gown."  The  speaker  lifted  her 
eyes  to  her  aunt's  somber  black.  "Father 
never  believed  in  mourning,  but  he  was  a 
prominent  man,  and  I  want  to  wear  the  badge 
of  respect  before  people  who  would  expect 
it.  I'll  wear  black  in  the  street,  but  Henry 
and  little  Harry  would  feel  the  gloom  of  it  in 
the  house,  and  though  Henry  has  n't  said 
anything  about  it,  I  have  decided  not  to 
wear  mourning  at  home." 

"You've  got  a  lot  of  sense,"  was  her  aunt's 
response.  "I  believe  in  that." 

"We  can't  mourn  any  less,"  and  Harriet 
dashed  away  another  tear.  "No  girls  ever 
had  a  better  father  than  ours." 

Miss  Belinda  lifted  her  eyes  from  her  work. 

"Mr.  King  called  this  morning,  and 
in 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


brought  more  flowers  for  Linda.  If  flowers 
would  heal  hearts  Linda  would  never  shed 
another  tear,  but  she  can't  seem  to  bear  them. 
She  won't  let  one  blossom  be  in  the  room." 

"I  suppose  they  look  too  cheerful,"  said 
Harriet.  "How  is  poor  Bertram?" 

"Thin  as  a  rail.  Looks  as  if  he  had  the 
weight  of  the  nation  on  him,  and  I  suppose 
he  has.  I  guess  from  what  I  hear  these  days 
are  terribly  hard  on  him." 

"Terribly,"  echoed  Harriet.  "Henry's 
just  heart-broken  over  the  situation." 

"Has  Henry  lost  money  in  Barry  &  Co.? 
Don't  tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to." 

"No.  Of  course  Henry's  young,  and  has 
never  had  much  money  to  invest,  but  Father 
never  wanted  family  connections  mixed  up 
in  his  business.  I  know  that  sounds  as  if  he 
did  n't  feel  certain  of  his  propositions;  but 
there  is  n't  a  man  who  knew  Father  and 
Barry  &  Co.  who  would  n't  tell  you  he  be- 
lieved in  their  absolutely  honest  intention. 
I've  had  only  one  talk  with  Bertram  about 
the  business  since  —  but  he  called  me  up  this 
noon  and  said  he  must  see  Linda  and  me 
together  as  soon  as  she  is  able." 

Miss  Barry  dropped  her  work  again,  and 
112 


A  Business  Interview 


regarded  her  niece's  dark  head,  drooped  over 
her  work. 

"You  like  Bertram  King,  don't  you?" 

"Indeed  I  do."  Harriet  looked  up  in  sur- 
prise. "Henry  and  I  both  love  him  like  a 
brother." 

"Well,  I  just  wanted  to  know  if  you  felt 
him  worthy  of  all  confidence." 

"Oh,  you've  heard  that  talk,  have  you?" 

"What  talk?"  asked  Miss  Belinda  cau- 
tiously. 

"About  his  being  the  moving  spirit  of 
Barry  &  Co.  That  always  irritates  Henry 
and  me  beyond  everything.  As  if  my  father 
were  invertebrate,  and  could  n't  think  for 
himself." 

"Well,  Linda  believes  it.  That  is,  she 
believes  Mr.  King  had  an  abnormal  influence 
over  your  father.  In  fact,  she  blames  Mr. 
King  for  the  disaster." 

"She's  in  an  abnormal  state  herself. 
That's  what's  the  matter.  I  know  her  grief 
at  losing  Father  is  profound,  and  no  doubt 
the  money  loss  means  more  to  her  than  it 
does  to  me.  Henry  and  I  have  talked  it  over, 
and  we  feel  it  will  be  just  as  well  for  Harry 
if  he  does  n't  have  so  much  money  to  look 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


forward  to  as  we  expected.  With  Linda  it's 
different.  It  does  deprive  her  of  much  that 
perhaps  she  expected  to  do.  We  don't  know 
what  her  thoughts  have  been  all  these  days 
she  has  lain  there  so  quiet.  She  thinks  Ber- 
tram is  to  blame  for  taking  on  that  irriga- 
tion business?" 

"To  blame  for  everything.  She  —  she 
used  some  pretty  strong  language  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Oh,  but  that's  Linda,"  responded  Har- 
riet quickly.  "She's  always  extreme." 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  King  is  in  love  with 
her?"  asked  Miss  Barry  bluntly. 

Her  niece  looked  up  curiously.  "Why? 
Do  you?" 

Miss  Belinda  made  a  protesting  gesture 
with  one  stockinged  hand. 

"My  dear!  You'll  never  prove  anything 
of  that  sort  by  me.  I  think  he's  all  stirred 
up  about  her,  but  if  she's  right,  that  might 
be  remorse  on  his  part.  He  looked  to  me  this 
morning  as  if  some  able-bodied  woman 
ought  to  take  him  in  her  lap  and  rock  him." 

Harriet  smiled  and  returned  to  her  sewing. 
"Bertram  has  always  seemed  too  wrapped 
up  in  business  to  care  for  girls.  He  likes  to 

114 


A  Business  Interview 


tease  Linda  and  play  with  her,  but  her  in- 
terests have  all  been  apart  from  him.  Henry 
and  I  have  often  talked  about  it,  and  said 
how  nice  it  would  be  if  they  should  care  for 
each  other.  I  should  dislike  to  believe  that  he 
was  the  cause  of  our  misfortunes ;  but  Henry 
says  that  is  the  rumor  and  the  general  feel- 
ing. Even  Father  Radcliffe  credits  it,  but 
I'm  too  loyal  to  Daddy  to  believe  that  a 
young  man  like  Bertram  could  sway  him." 

"I  think,"  said  Miss  Barry,  "that  you 
girls  should  give  him  the  interview  he 
wants,  and  soon.  He  needs  all  the  help  he 
can  get." 

"  I  know  he  does.  I  promised  him  we  would 
see  him  to-morrow." 

Miss  Belinda  glanced  up.  "But  you 
have  n't  Linda's  consent." 

"She  must  consent.  It  will  be  good  for 
her.  It 's  what  she  needs,  to  have  something 
she  must  do." 

"She's  so  fond  of  Mrs.  Porter  I  thought 
she'd  be  glad  to  go  home  with  me  and  join 
her,  but  she  shrinks  from  everything  like  a 
sensitive  plant." 

"She  has  leisure  to  think  of  what  she 
wants,  you  see,"  returned  Harriet.  "  I 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


have  n't.    Perhaps  she  will  come  and  make 


me  a  visit.' 


"Well,  you  come  back  with  me  to  the 
house  this  afternoon,  anyway,  and  make  the 
plan  for  to-morrow.  I  think  an  interview 
with  Mr.  King  is  just  what  Linda  needs  to 
make  her  sense  what  the  poor  fellow  is  going 
through." 

Accordingly,  a  little  later  Harriet  donned 
her  black  street  clothes,  and  accompanied 
her  aunt  to  the  house  on  the  avenue. 

They  found  Linda  in  her  room,  stretched 
in  a  chaise  tongue  and  looking  out  of  the 
open  window  at  the  June  sky.  An  incessant 
whirr  of  motors  filled  the  spacious  room. 

"Don't  get  up,"  said  Harriet,  as  the  white 
figure  moved  to  rise.  She  kissed  her  sister. 
"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  dressed.  You  must 
soon  get  over  to  us.  Harry  talks  about  you 
every  day." 

As  this  declaration  called  forth  no  answer- 
ing smile,  Miss  Barry  left  the  sisters  to- 
gether, shaking  her  head  as  she  went. 

"  I  'm  glad  it  is  n't  my  job  to  persuade  her," 
she  thought. 

Harriet  came  straight  to  the  point.  "I 
can't  stay  long,  Linda,  for  I'm  never  away 

116 


A  Business  Interview 


when  Harry  has  his  supper,  but  I  came  over 
to  tell  you  that  we  must  meet  Bertram  to- 


morrow." 


"I  can't,"  returned  Linda,  her  eyes  look- 
ing startled  but  determined. 

"Yes,  you  can,  dear.  We  can  see  him 
right  up  here  if  necessary,  but  it  is  n't  fair 
not  to  answer  his  questions,  and  help  him  as 
much  as  we  can." 

"He  does  n't  need  to  ask  any  questions. 
He  knows  a  hundred  times  as  much  about 
it  all  as  we  do;  and  no  one  can  help  him. 
He  never  wanted  any  one  to  help  him." 

"Well,  we  won't  discuss  that,  dear.  He 
must  have  our  sanction  about  certain  things, 
and  every  hour  counts.  Surely  you'll  bestir 
yourself  for  the  honor  of  Barry  &  Co." 

"For  the  honor  of  Barry  &  Co.,"  repeated 
Linda,  in  the  tone  of  one  whose  fires  have 
burned  out. 

So  when  the  appointed  hour  arrived  next 
day,  it  found  Linda  dressed  and  ready  to 
descend  the  stairs  at  her  sister's  summons. 
Any  effort  was  better  than  to  allow  King  to 
come  up  to  her  room.  A  stranger  he  was  and 
a  stranger  he  should  always  remain. 

The  first  sight  of  her,  white  and  tall  in  her 
117 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


thin  black  gown,  was  a  shock  to  King.  The 
lips  held  in  a  tight  line,  the  colorless  face  and 
manner,  were  in  such  marked  contrast  to  the 
exuberance  of  the  Linda  he  had  last  seen, 
that  he  marveled  at  the  change,  with  a  sink- 
ing of  his  tired  heart  and  brain.  She  might 
well  have  been  disturbed  by  his  own  ap- 
pearance, but  she  scarcely  looked  at  him. 

Miss  Belinda  was  present.  The  four  sat 
around  the  massive  table  in  the  den;  while 
King  slowly  and  carefully  outlined  the  busi- 
ness situation.  Lambert  Barry's  will  left 
bequests  to  various  charities,  ten  thousand 
dollars  to  his  sister  in  addition  to  the  invest- 
ment fronv  which  for  years  she  had  drawn 
what  he  called  her  allowance,  and  the  rest 
of  his  fortune  was  to  be  divided  equally 
between  his  two  daughters.  Bertram  paused, 
and  Linda  met  his  hollow  gaze. 

"I  judge  the  chief  thing  you  wish  to  know 
from  us,"  she  said,  "is  whether  we  wish  to 
give  more  than  the  law  compels,  to  satisfy 
creditors." 

King  wondered  whether  grief  could  be 
responsible  for  the  inimical  look  in  her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Barry,  the  day  before  he  died,"  he 
returned,  "expressed  a  longing  to  prevent 

118 


A  Business  Interview 


as  far  as  possible  suffering  resulting  from 
the  —  the  —  misfortunes  of  Barry  &  Co." 

"I'm  sure  of  that,"  returned  Linda.  "We 
spoke  of  it  together  one  evening.  I  said  that 
would  be  Barry  &  Co.'s  way." 

"Did  you  see  trouble  coming,  Linda?" 
asked  King  gravely. 

The  girl  was  sitting  straight  and  tense, 
and  her  eyes  did  not  drop  from  his  tired 
gaze. 

"No.  I  thought  at  that  time  there  was  no 
trouble  in  the  world  that  could  touch  my 
wise,  honorable  father." 

Miss  Barry  moved  uncomfortably,  watch- 
ing the  girl's  expression.  % 

"I'd  like  to  say,"  she  put  in,  "that  the 
ten  thousand  my  brother  left  me  I  want 
should  go  to  make  up  arrears  as  far  as  it  can." 

"Dear  Aunt  Belinda,"  said  Harriet,  put- 
ting a  hand  on  her  aunt's  knee  as  she  sat 
next  her.  "Now,  we  don't  any  of  us  want  to 
be  quixotic,"  she  went  on  in  her  moderate 
manner.  "We  want  to  be  calm  and  sensible." 

"Harriet,"  her  younger  sister  turned  to 
her,  "we  do  want  to  be  quixotic,  if  that  is 
what  the  world  calls  returning  money  se- 
cured under  false  pretenses.  So  far  as  I  am 

119 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


concerned,  there  is  only  one  possibility  for 
peace  for  me,  and  that  is  to  keep  our  father's 
memory  as  clean  before  the  world  as  it 
always  has  been.  I  can  speak  only  for  my 
share,  of  course,  but  my  wish  is  this:  that 
this  house,  the  motors,  and  all  these  belong- 
ings, be  sold  —  " 

"You  can  keep  your  electric,  Linda,"  in- 
terrupted King. 

She  brought  her  eyes  back  to  him. 

"You  cannot  tell  me  what  I  may  keep," 
she  answered,  slowly  and  incisively,  and  the 
young  man  frowned  wonderingly  at  her  tone. 

"I  want  everything  sold,"  she  went  on. 
"I  want  my  share  of  money,  property,  life 
insurance,  everything,  added  together,  and 
applied  pro  rata  to  the  losses  of  every  one  who 
put  a  misplaced  trust  in  Barry  &  Co." 

"Linda  —  "  began  Bertram  gently. 

She  rose  suddenly  and  turned  upon  him, 
her  nostrils  dilating. 

"Tell  me  this,  Bertram  King.  Have  you 
a  dollar  invested  in  the  Antlers  Irrigation 
Company?" 

King  started  to  his  feet,  and  viewed  the 
girl  in  amazement.  Her  brow  was  furrowed, 
and  the  eyes  in  her  white  face  blazed. 

1 20 


A  Business  Interview 


"Speak,"  she  insisted. 

A  flood  of  color  rushed  to  the  man's  very 
forehead  as  he  realized  her  open  enmity. 
In  silence  they  stood  thus  for  a  moment. 

"I  refuse  to  answer  you,"  he  said  at  last. 

Her  gaze  swept  him  scornfully.  "  It  is  what 
I  expected."  Then  she  turned  to  her  sister, 
speaking  gently.  "Settle  it  between  you 
now,  Harriet.  I  suppose  I  may  dispose  of 
my  own,  and  you  know  my  wishes.  They 
won't  change." 

After  she  had  gone  out,  Harriet  seized 
Bertram's  hand  as  he  stood  dazed. 

"Forgive  her,  Bertram,"  she  said  anxi- 
ously. "I  do  believe  she's  nearly  crazy." 

He  sat  down  again,  very  pale,  and  with  no 
comment  proceeded  to  sort  his  papers. 

Miss  Barry's  earrings  were  trembling,  and 
she  thought  with  longing  of  the  peace  of 
her  "Gull's  Nest." 


121 


CHAPTER  IX 

CORRESPONDENCE 

BEFORE  Miss  Barry's  train  had  reached 
Chicago,  Linda  had  received  a  telegram  con- 
veying sympathy  from  Mrs.  Porter.  A  pile 
of  notes  and  letters  lay  now  unopened  on 
her  desk.  Her  sister  had  read  the  telegram 
at  the  time  of  its  arrival,  and  left  it  on  the 
table  beside  Linda's  bed,  where  one  day  she 
read  it;  but  the  girl  refused  the  least  pres- 
sure on  her  wound  from  even  the  most 
friendly  and  delicate  fingers.  This  very 
afternoon,  when,  tingling  with  excitement 
and  antagonism,  she  swept  from  the  room, 
she  passed  the  maid  who  was  at  the  door, 
just  bringing  in  the  mail.  Somewhat  hesi- 
tatingly the  girl  offered  the  letters  to  her 
young  mistress.  She  and  all  the  other  serv- 
ants stood  in  awe  of  the  suffering  that  had 
so  altered  the  jolly,  careless,  imperious  young 
woman. 

Linda,    her    heart    beating    tumultuously 
with  its  indignation,  accepted  the  package 

122 


Correspondence 


automatically,  and  went  on  upstairs  to  her 
room. 

She  raised  her  hand  to  her  throat  in  the 
effort  to  stop  its  choking,  and  threw  down  the 
letters.  The  handwriting  on  the  top  one  was 
familiar  and  full  of  happy  association.  Here 
was  one  person  who  loved  her,  and  under- 
stood her,  and  whose  patience  had  never 
failed. 

With  the  picture  vividly  before  her  of  the 
faces  of  her  scandalized  sister  and  aunt,  she 
caught  up  this  letter  and  held  it  to  her  breast, 
her  large  gaze  fixed  straight  ahead.  The 
kindly  expression,  the  humorous  smile,  the 
loving  eyes  of  her  teacher  as  they  had  rested 
on  her  hundreds  of  times,  strove  with  the 
other  picture.  She  felt  she  could  bear  to 
have  Mrs.  Porter  talk  to  her.  She  moved  to 
the  door  and  locked  it,  conscious  suddenly 
that  she  was  trembling;  then  she  sank  into 
a  chair  and  opened  the  letter. 

My  dear  Linda  (it  began),  — 

I  have  waited  a  full  week  to  write  to  you 
because  I  felt  that  at  first  you  would  n't 
care  to  read  a  letter  even  from  me.  Do  you 
notice  that  "even"?  Yes,  I  feel  sure  you 

123 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


love  me  as  I  do  you,  sincerely,  and  it  gives 
me  courage  to  talk  to  you  just  as  if  you  were 
lying  beside  me  on  these  sun-warmed  rocks, 
with  the  cool  wind  trying  in  spurts  to  snatch 
off  the  duck  hat  that  is  shading  my  eyes. 
It  can't  succeed,  for  the  hat  is  tied  on  with 
the  white  veil  you  gave  me.  There  is  a  little 
scent  of  orris  in  it  still,  marking  it  as  yours, 
and  giving  me  the  pleasant  feeling  of  one  of 
your  "bear's  hugs." 

I  am  sorry  to  be  a  thousand  miles  off  from 
my  little  girl's  troubles,  and  so  all  this  week 
I  have  been  trying  to  know  that  the  opposite 
of  this  sense  of  separation  is  the  truth;  that 
all  that  I  love  in  you  is  mine  still,  and  that 
the  greater  part  of  what  I  could  do  for  you 
if  I  were  there  it  is  my  privilege  to  do  here. 
The  personal  touch,  the  interchange  of  lov- 
ing looks,  is  dear  to  our  human  sense,  but 
sometimes  even  these  get  in  the  way  of  the 
loftier,  broader  mission  which  God's  chil- 
dren may  perform  for  one  another. 

I  have  been  thinking  much  about  your 
father,  a  man  whose  keen  sense  of  honor,  and 
large  charity,  will  be  discerned  more  and 
more  clearly  when  the  present  confusion  is 
straightened  out. 

124 


Correspondence 


Linda's  suddenly  blinded  eyes  closed,  and 
she  again  held  the  letter  to  her  breast  a 
minute  before  going  on. 

He  is  incapable  of  wrong  intention.  Do 
you  notice  that  I  say  "is"?  I  wonder  if  you 
are  feeling  that  sense  of  continuous  immortal 
life  which  is  your  rightful  and  best  comfort 
at  this  time.  All  that  you  loved  best  in  your 
father  were  traits  which  your  hands  could 
not  touch.  Your  heart  and  mind  only  dis- 
cerned them.  They  are  yours  still,  and  they 
were  that  real  part  of  him  which  God  sus- 
tained and  now  sustains,  and  which  were  the 
reflections  of  His  Light  and  Love. 

I  cannot  touch  your  body  now,  any  more 
than  if  it  had  ceased  to  dwell  upon  this  earth, 

—  any  more  than  you  can  touch  your  father's, 

—  but  that  makes  you  no  less  real  to  me. 
My  tall  little  Linda  speaks  to  me  in  her 
generosity,   her   lovingness,   her   gayety,   as 
vividly  as  if  you  were  beside  me  this  minute, 
and  it  would  be  so  if  I  knew  I  was  never  to 
look  upon  your  face  again.    "The  flesh  prof- 
iteth  nothing,"  the  Bible  says;  and  it  is  one 
of  those  lightning  flashes  of  truth  that  glance 
away  from  us  until  the  trained  thought  is 

125 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


sensitized  to  receive  it;  but  after  that,  little 
by  little  it  proves  itself. 

Perhaps  I  am  talking  too  long,  but  please 
know  that  I  am  thinking  of  you  daily,  with 
thoughts  full  of  love. 

The  Comforter  that  Jesus  promised  us  is 
a  real  Existence,  and  "underneath  are  the 
everlasting  arms." 

"As  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth  so 
will  I  comfort  you,  saith  the  Lord."  How  I 
love  to  think  of  that  when  I  think  of  my 
dear  girl. 

I  found  those  words  a  few  weeks  ago  on 
the  calendar  you  gave  me,  and  now  I  give 
the  wonderful  promise  back  to  you.  Say  it 
over  to  yourself,  dear  child,  even  if  you  don't 
now  see  how  or  when  it  will  come  true,  for 
His  promises  are  sure.  It  only  rests  with  us 
to  open  our  hearts  to  receive  them. 
Your  loving  friend, 

MAUD  PORTER. 

Linda's  lip  was  caught  between  her  teeth, 
and  her  brow  frowning,  as  she  finished 
reading.  She  turned  the  letter  back  to  read 
again  the  sentences  about  her  father.  Here 
was  no  uncertain  note. 

126 


Correspondence 


She  crumpled  the  sheets  between  her  hands 
and  closed  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  God,  You  have  taken  away  my 
father.  Help  us  now  to  clear  his  name!" 

It  was  a  cry  from  her  heart,  the  first  time 
in  all  this  eternity  of  days  that  her  thought 
had  turned  to  the  Higher  Power  with  any 
feeling  save  resentment.  She  saw  her  friend 
lying  on  the  sun-warmed  rocks  in  the  sunlit 
atmosphere  of  a  joyous  June  day,  longing 
to  help  her,  longing  to  impart  to  her  the  sus- 
taining calm  of  her  own  faith,  and  gratitude 
woke  feebly  in  her. 

She  rose,  and  carried  the  letter  to  her  bed- 
room, folding  it  again  in  its  envelope.  It 
did  not  belong  in  her  desk.  Such  a  message 
from  the  woman  who  had  long  been  her 
ideal  was  a  thing  apart.  She  placed  it  in  the 
back  of  a  drawer  in  her  dresser,  and  there  her 
hand  encountered  a  scrap  of  paper  which 
she  drew  forth.  Its  clear  lettering  stood  out 
against  the  ivory-white  background. 

"Instead  of  the  thorn  shall  come  up  the 
fir  tree — " 

She  read  no  further.  The  calendar  again! 
She  recalled  also  that  leaf  which  in  the  studio 
she  had  marked  for  Mrs.  Porter's  reproach:  — 

127 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"When  thy  father  and  thy  mother  forsake 
thee,  then  the  Lord  will  take  thee  up." 

She  dropped  the  papers  and  covered  her 
eyes  again  with  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Mother,  Mother!"  she  moaned 
above  her  breath.  "How  could  God,  if  there 
is  a  God,  comfort  me  as  you  would!" 

Supposing  immortality,  in  which  every 
Sunday  in  church  she  declared  her  belief, 
were  really  true.  Supposing  her  father  and 
mother  were  together.  Supposing  her  mother 
were  now  consoling  him  for  his  mistakes,  — 
for  Bertram  King's  mistakes,  —  would  that 
thought  not  bring  consolation?  Her  worried 
father!  Her  lonely  father!  She  sank  into  a 
chair,  weeping  helplessly.  She  had  worn 
his  pearls  and  danced,  while  he  was  lonely! 
If  she  could  only  die  and  go  to  her  father  and 
mother.  Life  here  was  ruined,  and  no  one 
needed  her.  Harriet  was  engrossed  with  her 
family.  Aunt  Belinda's  heart  was  in  her  home, 
stern  duty  alone  holding  her  in  this  place. 

After  a  few  minutes  the  mourner  lifted  her 
bowed  head,  pulled  a  sheet  of  paper  toward 
her,  and  wrote :  — 

I  am  bleeding.   Please  write  to  me  again. 

LINDA. 

128 


Correspondence 


When  she  had  addressed  the  note  to  Mrs. 
Porter,  she  washed  her  face  and  made  her- 
self ready  for  the  tete-a-tete  dinner  with  her 
aunt,  which  would  shortly  be  served  in  her 
sitting-room.  She  had  never  entered  the 
dining-room  since  the  last  meal  she  ate  there 
with  her  father. 

She  set  her  door  open  in  order  that  Aunt 
Belinda  should  not  be  afraid  to  come  in,  and 
shortly  the  much-tried  lady  did  appear,  her 
lips  set  in  a  line  of  endurance.  Miss  Barry 
had  never  approved  less  of  her  niece  than  at 
the  moment  of  the  girl's  exit  from  that  busi- 
ness interview.  She  gave  a  sharp  glance  now 
at  her,  sitting  as  usual  with  eyes  gazing  from 
the  window  at  nothing,  and  hands  loosely 
folded  in  her  lap. 

"Harriet  left  her  good-bye  for  you,"  she 
said.  "She  had  to  hurry  home  for  Harry's 
supper." 

"Yes,"  responded  Linda. 

Miss  Belinda  sat  down,  and  the  gaze  she 
fixed  on  her  niece  waited  for  an  explanation 
or  an  apology.  None  came. 

Miss  Barry  cleared  her  throat.  "  Har- 
riet wishes  to  put  herself  on  record,"  she 
said  distinctly,  "as  entirely  disowning  any 

129 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


such  feeling  toward  Mr.  King  as  you  ex- 
pressed." 

"You  know  he  is  her  husband's  cousin," 
returned  Linda  passively.  "One  must  keep 
harmony  in  a  family." 

"More  than  that,  Linda  Barry,"  continued 
her  aunt  crisply,  "that  young  man  would 
have  had  to  be  guilty  of  designing  your 
father's  downfall  to  deserve  such  words  and 
such  a  manner  as  yours." 

The  girl  eyed  the  speaker  steadily,  and 
again  the  fire  of  excitement  glowed  in  her 
look. 

"You  saw  that  he  could  not  answer  my 
question." 

"I  saw  that  he  would  not." 

"It  would  be  a  good  plan  for  you  to  talk 
with  some  of  the  prominent  business  men  of 
the  town,"  remarked  Linda,  the  light  going 
out  of  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  need  any  business  man  to  tell  me 
that  that  poor  boy  is  about  used  up  —  and  in 
whose  service,  pray?  Answer  me  that, 
Linda  Barry." 

"Mammon,"  was  the  sententious  reply. 

"Pshaw!"  ejaculated  her  aunt.  "A  clever 
man  like  your  father  did  n't  trust  that  man 

130 


Correspondence 


for  no  reason.  Harriet's  and  my  heart  just 
ached  for  the  poor  fellow  this  afternoon.  I 
thought  for  a  minute  after  you  went  out  that 
he  was  going  to  faint." 

"Yes,"  returned  Linda  listlessly;  "I  sup- 
pose he  had  been  sure  no  one  would  hold 
him  in  any  way  responsible." 

The  servant  here  came  in  to  spread  the 
little  table  for  dinner,  while  Miss  Barry,  her 
hands  tightly  locked  together,  gave  her  in- 
dignant thoughts  free  rein,  and  followed 
Bertram  King  to  his  room  at  the  club. 

Had  she  really  been  able  to  see  him,  she 
would  have  witnessed  his  finding  upon  his 
arrival  a  letter  in  Mrs.  Porter's  handwriting. 

His  white,  stoical  face  did  not  change  while 
he  read  it :  — 

Dear  Bertram,  — 

I  want  to  send  you  a  few  lines  to  the  club, 
because  I  feel  sure  there  will  be  a  quieter  at- 
mosphere there  than  at  the  office  these 
troublous  days.  There  is  never  an  hour  in 
which  my  thoughts  do  not  go  to  you  and 
Linda,  fellow  sufferers  and  both  so  dear  to 
me.  I  can  scarcely  wait  for  the  day  when 
your  duties  will  let  you  leave  Chicago  and 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


come  here.  Doubtless  Linda  will  arrive  soon, 
and  here  you  will  both  find  healing  for  your 
sorrow,  and  if  it  is  right,  find  each  other.  She 
will  have  a  double  reason  for  nearness  to 
you  as  the  chief  earthly  link  with  her  dear 
father,  and  here  in  this  simplicity  and  quiet 
the  real  things  of  life  are  more  easily  discerni- 
ble. Complications  seem  to  have  no  place 
in  these  broad,  harmonious  spaces,  and  both 
you  dear  ones  can  forget  the  fevers  of  sor- 
rowful excitement. 

Let  me  hear  from  you. 

Yours  as  ever, 

MAUD. 

It  was  by  return  mail  that  Mrs.  Porter 
received  the  answer  to  this  letter.  She  opened 
it  with  eagerness :  — 

Dear  Maud,  — 

Thank  you  for  your  letter  and  far  more 
for  your  aifection.  It  is  some  comfort,  while 
I  am  locking  horns  with  enemies,  or  endeavor- 
ing to  untangle  labyrinths,  to  know  that 
there's  a  good  little  woman  ready  to  coddle 
me  when  I  have  time  to  be  coddled. 

I  see  you  remember  the  heart-to-heart 
132 


Correspondence 


talk  you  drew  me  into  one  day  —  and  I  ad- 
mit I  was  easy  to  draw.  Now  I  ask  you  to 
forget  all  that  I  said  if  you  can.  My  wishes 
and  plans  have  undergone  a  complete  change, 
and  I  am  glad  you  are  the  only  person  liv- 
ing who  knows  what  my  designs  and  hopes 
were,  for  they  have  vanished. 

Pardon  brevity.  I'm  "that  druv,"  as 
your  Maine  friends  would  have  it,  that  I 
don't  know  whether  I  'm  afoot  or  horse- 
back. I'll  look  forward,  however,  to  an  hour 
when  you  and  I  can  elope  to  some  Arcadia 
for  a  few  weeks,  and  I  '11  let  you  know  when 
such  a  day  looms  on  the  horizon. 
Your  devoted  cousin, 

BERTRAM. 

Mrs.  Porter's  face  had  slowly  undergone  a 
change  from  eagerness  to  dazed  and  sad 
surprise. 

"I  wouldn't  have  believed  it!"  she  solil- 
oquized, as  she  let  the  sheet  fall.  "People 
have  so  often  said  that  Bertram  cared  for 
the  dollar  mark  above  all  else,  but  I  laughed 
at  them.  How  I  hope  she  does  n't  care! 
Howl  hope  it!" 


133 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    SPELL    BREAKS 

THAT  spot  in  Miss  Belinda's  heart  which  had 
softened  toward  her  niece  in  the  latter's 
misery  of  bereavement  bid  fair  to  harden 
over  again  every  time  she  thought  of 
Linda's  attitude  toward  Bertram  King.  It 
was  bad  enough  to  harbor  the  absurd  theory 
that  so  young  a  man  had  been  able  to  mould 
the  opinions  and  actions  of  his  employer; 
but  it  was  unthinkable  that  in  this  time  of 
grief  and  stress  the  girl  had  been  able  to 
sneer  at  him,  and  so  evidently  cut  him  to 
the  heart  with  her  accusation.  Every  time 
that  scene  rose  before  Miss  Barry's  mental 
vision  her  earrings  quivered  again.  What 
did  these  weary  days  that  she  was  under- 
going amount  to?  Linda  was  civil  to  her, 
but  indifferent  to  everything  and  everybody. 
The  girl  made  no  effort  to  conceal  that  the 
visits  of  her  own  sister  were  a  weariness, 
and,  unthinkable  to  Harriet,  she  made  ex- 
cuses not  to  see  little  Harry. 

134 


The  Spell  Breaks 


Day  after  day  of  the  big  empty  house  and 
the  silent  girl,  the  constant  whirr  of  motors 
through  the  wide-open  windows,  caused 
Miss  Barry  to  find  that  she  was  guilty  of 
nerves.  Again  and  again  she  hinted  to 
Linda  that  the  sea  air  was  what  she  needed. 
The  girl  was  usually  deaf  to  the  suggestion, 
or  else  returned,  gently  and  civilly,  it  is  true, 
to  pleading  with  her  aunt  not  to  remain 
longer,  protesting  that  she  was  entirely  re- 
covered and  able  to  be  left  alone. 

One  day  her  answer  became  more  frank. 

"Mrs.  Porter  has  written  me  that  she  is 
trying  to  get  Bertram  to  come  there  to  rest," 
she  said. 

Miss  Barry  gazed  at  the  speaker.  "Sits 
the  wind  in  that  quarter?"  thought  she. 
Her  earrings  quivered  again,  and  she 
counted  ten.  Of  what  use  was  it  to  contend 
with  a  statue?  At  last  she  spoke. 

"I  only  wish  we  could  do  something  for 
him,"  she  said,  "but  it  won't  be  that.  I 
met  him  on  the  street  yesterday,  and  he  said 
it  would  n't  be  possible  for  him  to  get  away 
before  autumn." 

Linda  making  no  reply  to  this,  Miss  Barry 
stared  at  her  for  a  minute  more,  then  sought 

135 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


her  own  pleasant,  spacious  room.  Hers  was 
not  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer,  but  she  sat 
down  now  at  her  well-appointed  desk,  and 
wrote  a  letter. 

Dear  Mrs.  Porter,  — 

I  begin  to  see  a  loophole  of  light  on  our 
situation.  I  wrote  you  a  week  ago  how  crazy 
I  am  to  come  home.  I'd  like  to  burn  every 
devilish  automobile  in  Chicago,  I'm  so  sick 
of  their  noise;  but  Linda's  kept  on  just  as 
obstinate  as  a  mule,  saying  she  must  stay, 
but  wanting  me  to  go.  I  can't  go  unless  she 
does.  She's  taken  against  everybody.  Har- 
riet thinks  she's  out  of  her  mind  because  she 
refuses  to  see  the  wonderful  baby;  and  I 
assure  you  I'd  be  squeamish  about  leaving 
her,  for  I  could  n't  be  sure  she  would  n't  do 
away  with  herself,  she's  so  morbid.  I  have  n't 
told  you  the  greatest  proof  of  her  morbid- 
ness (perhaps  it  ought  to  be  morbidity,  but 
no  matter)  —  she  acts  like  the  devil  incarnate 
to  your  cousin  Bertram  King.  You  know 
you  told  me  he  wanted  to  marry  her.  Well, 
I  guess  he's  graduated  from  that  notion.  At 
any  rate,  it  seems  she  thinks  he  led  her 
father  into  the  business  deal  that  brought 

136 


The  Spell  Breaks 


on  most  of  this  trouble  —  that  big  irrigation 
project  out  West.  My  brother  was  n't  any- 
body that  could  be  led  by  the  nose,  but 
Linda  won't  hear  to  reason,  and  my  patience 
with  her  is  exhausted.  Well,  this  morning 
when  I  returned  to  the  charge  about  going 
home,  it  came  out  that  she  was  afraid  Mr. 
King  was  going  to  you.  Now  he  is  n't,  be- 
cause he  can 't  get  away  for  months  to  come. 
So  won't  you  write  her  that  you've  given 
up  trying  to  get  him,  and  that  you  want  to 
see  her  —  if  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to 
a  whopper  —  and  that  you  hope  for  my  sake 
she'll  exert  herself  and  bring  me  home! 
That's  a  good  one!  Bring  me  home!  If  any 
one  can  persuade  her,  you  can,  for  so  far 
as  I  can  find  out  you're  the  only  person  on 
earth  she  has  n't  taken  against.  Sometimes 
I  speak  of  you,  sort  of  carelessly,  and  say  I 
hope  you  ain't  feeling  it  too  much  responsi- 
bility to  take  care  of  the  cottage  when  you  'd 
hoped  to  have  an  entire  rest !  And  if  she  hears 
what  I  say  she  looks  at  me  real  human  for  an 
instant. 

Once  I  asked  her  if  she  would  n't  sit  down 
to  that  little  piano  in  her  sitting-room  and 
let  me  hear  her  voice.  Law!  You  ought  to 

137 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


have  seen  the  way  her  eyes  turned  on  me. 
Truly  I  never  saw  anybody  who  could  look 
so  near  as  if  they  had  a  knife  in  their  heart 
as  she  can. 

I'm  getting  as  nervous  as  a  cat.  After 
we've  dragged  through  a  day,  then  comes  on 
the  night,  when  everything  on  wheels  goes 
past  our  house.  If  Catling  guns  came  small 
enough  I'd  rig  one  in  my  window  and  do 
some  of  the  shooting  myself. 

Now,  you  do  your  best  to  fix  it  up,  Mrs. 
Porter,  and  if  you  can  just  get  us  to  the 
Cape,  then  you  can  go  off  somewhere  else 
where  there  won't  be  any  wet  blanket  to 
spoil  your  fun.  Linda  ought  to  be  outdoors; 
but  I  've  never  got  her  out  once  since  we  came 
back  from  the  cemetery.  She  asks  every  day 
if  the  cars  are  sold.  She  has  it  on  the  brain 
to  pay  back  everybody  who  lost  anything 
in  the  catastrophe. 

I  'm  hanging  all  my  hopes  on  you,  and  am 
Yours  truly, 

BELINDA  BARRY. 

While  reading  this  letter  Mrs.  Porter's 
cheeks  grew  pink,  and  upon  finishing  she 
fell  into  a  prolonged  brown  study.  So  it  was 

138 


The  Spell  Breaks 


not  mercenary  considerations  which  had  al- 
tered Bertram's  aspirations.  Her  heart  went 
out  to  him.  She  had  never  known  till  now 
how  much  she  cared  for  Bertram.  The  im- 
pulse attacked  her  to  leave  this  peaceful 
scene  and  take  the  first  train  for  the  spot 
where  her  loved  ones  were  in  such  distress; 
but  Miss  Barry's  adjuration  must  be  heeded. 
To  get  Linda  away  from  those  scenes  and 
associations  was  surely  the  first  necessity. 
Mrs.  Porter  found  she  had  to  meet  and 
banish  some  resentment  toward  the  un- 
happy girl  who  could  so  ruthlessly  add  to 
another's  woe.  But  she  had  Linda's  appeal. 
When  one  is  bleeding  one  may  be  ruthless 
without  realizing;  so  again  Mrs.  Porter  sat 
down  and  addressed  herself  to  the  task  of 
helping  the  sufferer: 

My  dear  Linda  (she  wrote),  — 

"I'm  not  on  the  warm,  breezy  rocks  to- 
day. A  nor'easter  is  gathering,  and  I  am 
sitting  in  Miss  Barry's  living-room,  where 
her  good  little  Blanche  has  let  me  build  a 
roaring,  glorious  fire  of  birch  logs.  It  seems 
almost  wicked  to  burn  anything  so  beautiful 
as  the  white  birch,  and  yet  anything  so  airy 

139 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


and  poetical  should  not,  perhaps,  be  allowed 
to  wither  and  fall  into  decay.  Better,  per- 
haps, that  it  should  be  caught  up  in  a  chariot 
of  flame. 

If  you  knew  how  lovely  it  is  here,  how 
sweet  the  smells,  how  pure  and  clear  the 
silence  of  all  save  Nature's  sounds,  you  would, 
I  am  sure,  take  the  first  train  out  of  Chicago. 
I  have  given  up  the  hope  of  persuading 
Bertram  to  leave.  He  would  far  rather  die 
right  there  than  leave  one  duty  to  your  father 
unperformed.  I  shall  hope  to  go  back  in 
August  and  get  him  to  go  West  with  me  for  a 
time  before  my  teaching  begins. 

I  think  of  you  every  day,  my  little  Linda. 
I  received  your  note.  We  do  bleed  when  we 
are  wounded;  but  blessed  are  they  that 
mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted.  The 
blessing  of  mourning  is  the  finding  of  real 
comfort  —  spiritual  comfort;  the  oil  of  joy 
for  mourning;  the  realization  that  we  need 
never  mourn;  that  this  world  is  not  all;  that 
no  good  thing  will  He  withhold  from  them 
that  walk  uprightly;  that  no  blessing  is 
ever  taken  away  from  God's  child. 

We  hear  people  say,  "Shan't  I  believe  the 
evidence  of  my  own  senses  ? "  I  once  heard  a 

140 


The  Spell  Breaks 


lecturer  enlarge  upon  that  theme,  showing 
that  our  whole  education  is  largely  for  the 
purpose  of  instructing  us  away  from  the 
evidence  of  our  senses,  from  learning  that 
the  sun  does  not  rise  or  set,  —  through  the 
whole  list  of  deceitful  appearances.  If  I 
believed  what  I  see  now,  I  should  say  that 
the  sun  had  left  the  world  to  storm  and 
darkness,  but  we  know  that  the  glorious 
sun  and  cloudless  firmament  are  there  to- 
day as  truly  as  on  the  brilliant  yesterday, 
and  we  have  no  fear  that  we  shall  not  see  it 
again. 

The  deceitful  appearance  which  you  have 
now  to  recognize  is  that  your  father  has  died 
and  left  you.  Life  never  dies,  and  Love  is 
immortal.  Life  is  progress,  too,  and  he  knows 
more  and  greater  and  happier  things  than 
he  knew  here.  Every  right  motive  and  act 
of  his  life  is  receiving  its  logical  reward,  and 
opening  out  new  channels  for  progress.  Let 
us  not  think  of  him  in  the  flesh,  but  in  the 
spirit.  Let  us  not  dwell  sadly  on  his  mortal 
harassment  or  disappointments.  How  do 
we  know  but  such  thoughts  are  a  drag 
upon  his  spirit?  Let  us  speed  him  on  with 
our  own  love  and  courage,  and  let  us  try 

141 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


every  day  to  harbor  no  thought  that  will 
hamper  our  souls  and  make  us  less  fit  to  join 
him. 

It  is  easier  to  sink  down  under  a  blow  than 
to  rise  and  go  on;  and  yet  rising  and  going  on 
is  what  will  make  you  keep  step  with  your 
loved  one  and  not  be  left  behind.  Your 
sister  has  an  advantage  over  you,  because 
she  must  rise  and  go  on.  If  you  are  finding 
that  the  strong  leading-spirit,  Linda  Barry, 
is  faltering  and  weak  now,  you  are  making 
a  blessed  discovery;  finding  that  the  strength 
of  the  human  will  is  not  the  true  strength, 
and  that  like  a  little  child  you  can  turn  to 
your  Heavenly  Father,  and  receive  from 
Him  strength  which  no  mortal  blow  can 
destroy.  Keep  the  fire  of  Love  glowing  in 
your  heart,  and  you  will  find  that  it  is  the 
fuel  that  will  make  strong  and  bright  every 
faculty.  Unselfishness  follows  where  that 
fire  burns;  but  withdraw  the  fuel  and  the 
heart  is  cold,  and  those  about  you  feel  the 
chill. 

I  am  hoping  daily  to  hear  that  you  are 
ready  to  bring  your  aunt  home.  Has  she 
ever  told  you  the  pretty  story  of  her  girlish 
day-dreams  on  these  rocks,  and  how  her 

142 


The  Spell  Breaks 


barefooted  brother  resolved  mentally  that  he 
would  be  a  prosperous  man  some  day,  and 
give  her  a  home  right  here?  He  was  able  to 
fulfill  that  boyish  resolve,  and  somehow  this 
cottage  is  to  me  very  full  of  him.  Many  men 
would  have  forgotten  in  the  rush  of  business 
to  carry  out  such  a  plan,  but  not  your  father. 
I  can  imagine  with  just  what  refreshment  his 
thoughts  flew  here  from  the  clatter  of  the 
city.  I  am  sure  Miss  Barry's  come  here  every 
day,  and  I  am  sure  she  will  be  very  happy 
when  you  decide  to  leave.  I  know  you  are 
not  detaining  her  willingly,  but  in  her  place 
I  should  feel  as  she  does  about  coming  with- 
out you.  Do  you  know  that  I  want  very 
much  to  see  you?  Here  in  the  nest  of  your 
dear  father's  generous,  loving  thought,  I  am 
resting,  and  waiting  for  you  to  rest  too. 
You'll  feel  nearer  to  him  than  in  the  crash- 
ing city.  Come  and  try. 

Yours  lovingly, 

MAUD  PORTER. 

Miss  Barry  had  brought  this  thick  letter 
to  her  niece,   and  though  her  hands  were 
busied  with  some  work  as  she  sat  at  a  dis- 
tance from  her,  she  glanced  furtively  at  the 
143 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


girl  from  time  to  time,  striving  to  glean  from 
her  face  some  hope  as  to  its  effect. 

When  Linda  finished  reading,  she  dropped 
the  sheets  and  looked  up  so  quickly  that  she 
caught  her  aunt's  inquiring  glance.  Miss 
Barry  flushed  guiltily,  and  looked  back  at 
her  work. 

"How  soon  do  you  think  we  could  go  to 
the  Cape,  Aunt  Belinda?" 

In  her  excitement  and  eagerness  Miss 
Barry's  words  stuck  in  her  throat. 

"Why  —  ahem !  —  how  about  —  how  about 
to-morrow?" 

"Let  us  go  to-morrow,"  said  Linda. 


144 


CHAPTER  XI 

EASTWARD    HO! 

FRED  WHITCOMB  felt  his  eyes  sting,  but  he 
scorned  to  wipe  them  as  he  strode  manfully 
up  Michigan  Avenue.  Instead,  he  scowled 
and  set  his  teeth  and  threw  his  shoulders 
back,  as  one  who  yearns  to  meet  the  foe  hand 
to  hand.  His  opportunity  was  near,  for 
Bertram  King,  having  forgotten  some  pa- 
pers, was  walking  hastily  toward  the  club, 
and  Fred,  blinded  and  distrait,  turned  a  cor- 
ner and  ran  directly  into  him. 

The  lighter  and  taller  man  seized  his 
assailant. 

"Don't  do  that  again,  Freddy.  It's  a 
wonder  I  did  n't  go  over  like  a  tenpin." 

"I  didn't  see  you,"  growled  Freddy, 
winking  hard. 

"I  gathered  that,"  remarked  King,  and 
was  hurrying  on,  but  Whitcomb  held  him. 

"Why  were  n't  you  at  the  station  to  see 
them  off?"  he  demanded.  "I  thought  of 
course  you'd  be  there." 

"More  room  for  you,  Freddy,"  returned 
US 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


the  other,  looking  steadily  into  his  friend's 
belligerent  eyes. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  neglect  Linda 
at  such  a  time." 

"Do  you  think  she  missed  me?"  asked 
King  quietly. 

"Of  course  she  did,"  hotly.  "I  found  out 
only  by  accident  by  what  train  they  were 
going.  They  did  n't  let  anybody  know,  Miss 
Barry  said;  but  of  course  you  knew.  I'd  — 
I'd  hardly  know  Linda." 

A  terrific  lump  rose  in  the  speaker's  throat, 
and  blinded  again  by  grief  he  turned  hastily 
away  to  continue  his  march. 

This  time  Bertram  detained  him.  Freddy 
tried  to  escape,  but  it  was  a  grip  of  steel  on 
his  arm.  "  Come  into  the  club  a  minute,"  said 
King,  and  his  companion  obeyed  the  leading. 
At  least  it  would  be  a  place  where  he  could 
use  his  handkerchief  secure  from  observation. 

"  Now,  you  're  not  taking  me  to  your  room," 
objected  the  younger  man,  as  his  captor,  not 
relaxing  the  hold  on  his  arm,  led  him  toward 
the  elevator. 

"Guess  again,  Freddy,"  said  Bertram;  and 
the  visitor,  after  a  moment  of  holding  back, 
found  himself  in  the  elevator. 

146 


Eastward  Ho! 


When  they  were  in  King's  room,  and  the 
door  closed,  the  host  indicated  a  chair,  but 
the  guest  remained  standing. 

Bertram  smiled  a  little  wistfully  as  he  re- 
garded the  other's  youthful  strength,  think- 
ing his  face,  in  its  present  condition  of  re- 
pressed emotion,  looked  as  it  must  have  done 
when  he  was  ten. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  asked 
Freddy,  his  head  held  high. 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  you  use  for  a  hair 
tonic,"  said  Bertram,  passing  his  hand  over 
his  own  fair  locks,  beginning  to  feel  thin  at 
the  crown. 

"Don't  be  a  —  What  have  you  brought 
me  up  here  for?" 

"To  let  you  pull  yourself  together  for  one 
thing.  You  were  in  a  fair  way  to  assault  and 
batter  all  down  the  avenue." 

"You  —  you  fish!11  ejaculated  the  visitor, 
changing  his  mind  suddenly,  and  dropping 
into  the  offered  chair.  Quite  frankly  he 
covered  his  flushed  face  with  his  handker- 
chief and  choked  into  it. 

King  sat  down  near  an  open  window,  and 
waited  for  the  paroxysm  to  pass. 

"It  breaks  me  up  completely  to  see  Linda 
147 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


like  that,"  said  Whitcomb  at  last,  wiping  his 
eyes  and  shaking  his  shoulders  impatiently. 
He  faced  his  host,  and  realized  the  latter's 
appearance.  No  one  could  look  seedier  than 
King,  he  thought.  "Of  course  I  know  you're 
rushed,"  he  added,  "but  in  your  place  I'd 
rather  have  sat  up  all  night  than  not  to  see 
her  off;  and  the  humorous  part  of  it  is  that  I  Ve 
been  believing  you  were  crazy  about  her." 

The  two  regarded  each  other  for  a  silent 
space,  and  for  the  first  time  there  crept  into 
the  younger  man's  mind  the  cold  suspicion 
that  the  change  in  Linda's  fortune  had 
affected  Bertram  King.  Even  so,  it  could  not 
have  made  such  a  brute  of  him  as  to  let 
Linda  creep  off  alone! 

"Harriet  was  there,  and  Henry,"  he  said, 
just  for  the  sake  of  speaking,  while  he  strove 
with  this  strange  idea,  one  which  had  ele- 
ments of  relief  for  himself  while  it  added  fuel 
to  his  indignation  with  King. 

"Of  course,"  answered  the  other  coolly. 
"So  that  was  a  pretty  good  bodyguard,  for 
you're  always  a  host,  Freddy." 

"There  was  very  little  I  could  do  for  her," 
declared  Whitcomb,  "and  I'm  sure  you  — 
you  hurt  her  feelings." 

148 


Eastward  Ho! 


"I'm  glad  you  were  there,"  said  King. 

"You've  no  right  to  be  glad,"  retorted 
Freddy. 

The  older  man  smiled.  "Isn't  it  mag- 
nanimous in  me  to  be  glad  she's  wearing  your 
violets  instead  of  mine,  eating  your  choco- 
lates instead  of  mine,  reading  your  magazines 
instead  —  " 

"  Stop! "  said  Whitcomb,  raising  his  hand  im- 
peratively. "  It 's  sacrilege  to  joke  about  her." 

"You're  a  nice  chap,  Freddy,"  declared 
King  slowly. 

The  visitor  rose.  "Don't  you  dare  to 
patronize  me,"  he  said.  "Thanks  to  your 
cursed  bank  I'm  a  poor  chap.  I'd  begun  to 
hope  —  to  hope  —  What  do  you  care  what 
I  hoped  ?  You  're  as  cold-blooded  as  that  irri- 
gation swindle  that's  fooled  us  all." 

A  little  slow  color  crept  over  Bertram 
King's  lantern  jaws. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  briefly.  "I  brought 
you  up  here  to  talk  about  that.  You  did  n't 
attend  the  meeting  of  the  stockholders  last 
night." 

"No.  I  was  doing  errands  for  Miss  Barry; 
and  I  did  n't  care  to  sit  there  and  listen  to 
empty  platitudes." 

149 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


King  hesitated  a  moment,  but  he  put  con- 
straint upon  himself.  Freddy  was  desperately 
in  love,  and  had  had  a  desperate  disappoint- 
ment. 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  feeling  sore,"  he 
said  at  last,  "but  I  believe  I  have  good  news 
for  you.  The  irrigation  proposition  would 
have  gone  through  all  right  if  the  panic  in 
that  region  had  n't  suddenly  knocked  the 
bottom  out  for  the  time  being.  It's  a  legiti- 
mate thing,  and  we  were  able  to  show  the 
stockholders  last  night  that  if  they  would  be 
patient  and  give  us  time,  we  would  issue 
notes  and  the  bank  depositors  would  be 
paid." 

"What?"  asked  Whitcomb  incredulously, 
and  again  sat  down. 

King  nodded.  "The  bank  closed,  but  it 
did  n't  fail,  and  if  Barry  &  Co.'s  people  will 
trust  us,  I  firmly  believe  everybody  is  going 
to  have  his  own  —  say  in  a  year  or  two." 

"Two!"  echoed  Whitcomb,  the  hopeful 
light  fading  somewhat. 

"Of  course.  Money  in  the  bank,  boy." 
King  rose  and  advanced  to  him  and  slapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  "You  don't  need  it  to 
live  on." 

150 


Eastward  Ho! 


"No,  I  need  it  to  get  Linda,"  returned 
the  other  bluntly. 

Bertram  smiled  wanly,  and  balanced  back 
and  forth  on  his  heels  and  toes. 

His  visitor  regarded  him  curiously.  "I '11 
bet  you've  done  some  tall  working  on  this," 
he  said  slowly. 

"No  fish  ever  worked  harder,"  admitted 
Bertram. 

"But  when  you  knew  it  was  your  own 
fault  —  "  suggested  Whitcomb. 

King's  quizzical  eyes  regarded  the  speaker. 
"That  conviction  does  always  make  a  fellow 
rather  hump  himself,  Freddy." 

The  caller  rose.  He  did  n't  like  the  look  in 
his  host's  face.  All  this  heart-breaking  busi- 
ness should  be  treated  seriously.  King  looked 
worn,  but  he  did  n't  look  humble;  and  as 
Mr.  Barry's  factotum  he  had  been  frightfully 
neglectful  of  Linda  this  morning.  No,  Whit- 
comb  did  n't  feel  like  shaking  hands  with  him, 
even  after  King  had  lighted  for  him  a  beacon 
of  hope.  The  caller  suddenly  assumed  an 
abrupt,  businesslike  manner. 

"This  won't  do  for  me,"  he  said.  "So 
long,  King,"  and  he  started  precipitately^for 
the  door.  One  backward  glance  at  his  host, 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


who  was  still  standing  with  feet  wide  apart 
and  thumbs  hooked  in  his  vest,  gave  him 
pause.  King's  face  showed  so  plainly  the 
battle  he  had  fought.  Freddy  returned  and 
took  Bertram's  hand  and  wrung  it. 

"Do  you  know,  I  was  sure  you  wanted 
Linda,"  he  said,  with  sudden  frankness. 

King's  slender  fingers  gave  his  a  viselike 
grip,  and  his  lips  smiled  calmly.  "It  isn't 
so  much  a  question  of  what  we  want  as  what 
she  wants,  is  it?"  he  said. 

A  cloud  passed  over  Whitcomb's  face, 
and  again  Bertram  thought  he  could  see 
exactly  how  Freddy  had  looked  at  the  age 
of  ten. 

"Don't  you  believe  she'll  ever  want  me?" 
he  asked  naively.  Now  that  he  knew  King 
was  out  of  the  running  —  whether  from 
mercenary  reasons  or  otherwise — he  could 
put  the  question  as  to  an  intimate  friend 
of  the  family. 

King  laughed  softly  for  the  first  time  since 
Lambert  Barry's  death. 

"Don't  know,  Freddy.  If  I  were  a  girl  I'd 
want  you,  I  know  that.  You're  all  right." 

Whitcomb  blushed  and  scowled;  and  as  he 
took  the  elevator  on  its  downward  trip  he 

152 


Eastward  Ho! 


reflected  on  Bertram  King's  power  to  irri- 
tate his  fellowman. 

Ensconced  in  their  stateroom  on  the  train 
for  Boston,  Miss  Barry  heaved  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief scarcely  concealed  by  the  mutter  of  the 
moving  wheels.  They  had  not  taken  a  state- 
room without  protest  from  Linda  on  the 
ground  of  extravagance.  Linda  considering 
economy!  It  was  a  wonderful  circumstance; 
but  Miss  Barry,  anxious  as  she  was  to  be 
gone,  delayed  their  departure  a  few  days  to 
secure  the  room.  Instinctively  she  felt  that 
a  door  which  she  could  close  on  her  niece 
would  give  her  a  sense  of  security.  She 
regarded  her  now,  while  the  train  gained 
swiftness,  with  something  of  the  triumph 
the  captor  of  an  elusive,  valuable  wild 
animal  might  feel  at  seeing  it  safely  in  his 
possession. 

Linda,  passive  and  white,  did  not  resemble 
a  wild  creature  at  the  present  moment.  The 
first  thing  she  did  after  the  train  started  was 
to  withdraw  the  pin  from  the  huge  bunch 
of  violets  she  had  put  on  to  please  Whitcomb, 
and  toss  them  over  on  the  divan.  Miss  Barry, 
taking  off  her  hat,  watched  her  furtively. 

153 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"  Put  my  hat  in  the  bag  when  you  do  yours, 
will  you,  Linda?" 

The  girl  looked  vaguely  surprised.  It  was 
long  since  she  had  performed  a  service  for 
any  one,  and  she  even  held  her  own  hat  a 
moment  uncertainly,  after  she  had  removed 
it,  as  if  she  expected  her  aunt  to  take  charge 
of  it;  and  she  looked  at  Miss  Belinda  ques- 
tioningly. 

"Yes,  put  them  both  in,  and  hang  them 
up  over  there." 

Miss  Barry  handed  her  the  bags,  leaned 
back  in  her  corner,  and  sniffed.  A  dog  wags 
its  tail  to  express  emotion.  Miss  Belinda 
sniffed  —  a  dry,  sharp  little  sound,  which 
just  now  expressed  determination. 

"It's  time  for  her  to  give  up  sleep-walk- 
ing," she  thought,  and  she  looked  industri- 
ously out  of  the  window. 

Linda's  eyes  fell  to  the  hats,  and  she  slowly 
performed  the  office,  and  more  slowly  climbed 
on  the  seat  and  hung  up  the  bags. 

As  Miss  Barry  noted  the  languid  motions 
of  the  erstwhile  captain  of  a  basket-ball 
team,  she  realized  that  her  niece  was  like  a 
person  convalescing  from  a  siege  of  illness. 
Was  she  convalescing?  Was  she  improving  or 

154 


Eastward  Ho! 


retrograding?  No  matter  which;  they  were 
going  home,  home  to  the  Cape,  where  Miss 
Barry  would  not  feel  at  a  constant  disadvan- 
tage; and  her  heart  sang.  Linda  was  too 
feeble  to  jump  off  the  train,  and  they  were 
as  good  as  there.  Miss  Belinda  sniffed  again. 

Her  eye  fell  on  the  violets.  Linda  had 
sunk  back  into  her  corner,  her  lips  apart,  her 
eyes  languid.  The  train  was  very  warm.  An 
electric  fan  whirred  above  their  door. 

Miss  Barry  leaned  across  and  took  up  the 
violets.  Whitcomb's  face  had  been  vibrant 
with  emotion  as  he  left  them. 

"The  poor  boy!"  thought  Miss  Barry. 
She  had  learned  a  number  of  masculine 
names  through  reading  the  different  cards 
coming  repeatedly  with  boxes  of  flowers  for 
Linda;  but  Fred  Whitcomb  had  been  more 
pushing  and  insistent  than  the  others.  He 
had,  as  it  were,  often  put  his  heart  in  Miss 
Belinda's  hands  to  be  offered  to  Linda  on  a 
salver;  and  in  the  stress  of  emotion  this  morn- 
ing Miss  Barry  had  been  afraid  once  or  twice 
that  her  niece  was  going  to  be  kissed  by 
proxy.  She  certainly  felt  sorry  for  Freddy 
Whitcomb,  almost  as  sorry  as  for  Bertram 
King,  whose  absence  had  moved  her  keenly. 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Wouldn't  you  like  to  hold  these? 
They're  so  refreshing,"  she  said,  holding  out 
the  violets  toward  their  owner.  The  girl 
made  a  faint,  protesting  gesture  with  one 
hand,  and  shook  her  head.  Miss  Barry 
plunged  her  nose  into  the  velvet  depths, 
and  looked  over  the  bouquet  at  the  white, 
immobile  face  in  the  opposite  corner. 

"Ch-ch-cAoo,  ch-ch-cAoo,"  went  the  wheels, 
faster,  faster.  Welcome  sound.  Sweet  violets. 
The  scattered  fragrance  of  woodland  places, 
massed  together  for  the  joy  of  woman,  of- 
fered by  an  eager  heart  to  a  cold  one. 

"Violet  time  is  over  at  the  Cape,"  she 
remarked. 

"What?" 

"I  say,  violet  time's  over  at  the  Cape. 
Daisies  and  clover  now,  and  the  wild  roses 
swelling  up  and  getting  ready." 

Even  the  preoccupied  Linda  observed  a 
new  vitality  in  her  companion's  face,  and 
life  in  her  eyes  in  place  of  endurance. 

"You're  riding  backward,  Aunt  Belinda. 
I  did  n't  notice  till  this  minute.  Change 
with  me."  The  girl  leaned  forward. 

"Sit  still,  child.   It  makes  no  difference  to 


me." 


156 


Eastward  Ho! 


"Then  come  here  beside  me."  Miss  Barry 
hesitated.  Once  she  would  have  declined  on 
the  ground  of  mutual  comfort,  but  an  over- 
ture from  her  captive  was  remarkable. 

"Well,  if  it  won't  crowd  you,"  she  said, 
and  after  a  moment  of  reluctance  she  obeyed. 

"Don't  you  want  to  sit  by  the  window?" 
asked  the  girl. 

"Law,  no.  I  wish  the  artists  who  do  the 
Castoria  signs  would  adopt  futurist  methods." 
As  she  spoke,  Miss  Barry  made  herself  as 
small  as  she  could  against  the  arm  of  the 
seat,  and  again  caressed  her  nose  with  Freddy 
Whitcomb's  violets.  The  divan  opposite  was 
filled  with  American  Beauties,  magazines, 
and  bon-bon  boxes. 

"I  ought  to  put  the  flowers  in  water,"  she 
remarked. 

Linda's  large,  somber  gaze  rolled  toward 
the  display. 

"Yes,  please  do,"  she  said. 

"H'm,"  thought  Miss  Barry  as  she  rose. 
"One  word  for  the  flowers  and  two  for  her- 
self. She  wants  'em  out  of  sight." 

"I  think  we  ought  to  enjoy  the  violets," 
she  said  aloud.  "Such  a  cabbage  of  'em 
must  have  cost  that  boy  a  pretty  penny,  and 

157 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


they  won't  live  only  so  long,  anyway.  Poor 
Mr.  Whitcomb,  did  n't  he  look  pretty 
near  ready  to  have  apoplexy  when  he  got 
off!" 

"He's  got  over  it  by  now,"  said  Linda,  in 
her  quiet  expressionless  voice. 

"He's  the  kindest  boy  that  ever  lived.  I 
did  n't  realize  how  many  little  things  there 
were  to  attend  to  in  leaving,  or  I  'd  have  had 
Henry  do  them;  but  Mr.  Whitcomb  came 
and  put  himself  at  my  disposal,  and  I  cer- 
tainly disposed  of  him,  the  good  boy." 

"He  is  a  good  boy.  He  ought  to  hate  us," 
declared  the  girl  languidly. 

"Why's  that?" 

"He  told  me  a  long  time  ago  that  he  had 
invested  in  —  in  —  "  the  speaker  caught  her 
lip  under  her  teeth. 

"Now,  now,"  returned  Miss  Barry  sooth- 
ingly, as  the  other  paused.  "He's  young,  and 
able  to  stand  a  few  knockdowns.  Every 
business  man  gets  them  sooner  or  later,  and 
they're  lucky  when  disaster  comes  early  in 
their  career  instead  of  late.  Now,  now, 
Linda!"  for  the  girl's  handkerchief  dried  a 
drop  stealing  under  her  eyelid.  "He  adores 
you,  the  nice  lad." 

158 


Eastward  Ho! 


"Don't  you  see  that  makes  it  harder  —  as 
if  I  ought  to  marry  him  to  make  up?" 

"Now,  now!"  Miss  Barry  tried  to  speak 
lightly.  "He'd  be  worse  than  Shylock.  I'll 
bet  it's  a  hundred  and  thirty  pounds  when 
you're  in  good  case.  Aren't  those  candy 
boxes  wonderful!  I  must  take  'count  of 
stock." 

She  started  up  and  laid  the  violets  on  the 
vacated  seat.  Linda  looked  at  them.  She 
could  hear  Freddy  Whitcomb's  voice  as  it 
broke  boyishly  on  that  last  evening  of  her 
life:  — 

"  I  don't  care  anything  about  your  father's 
money,  Linda.  I  had  a  raise  last  week." 

Her  hand  fell  gently  on  the  velvet  mass, 
and  rested  there.  Miss  Barry's  Argus  eyes 
observed  the  movement. 


159 


CHAPTER  XII 

EN    ROUTE 

Miss  BARRY  took  the  rest  of  the  flowers 
and  placed  their  stems  in  the  washbowl, 
where  the  lovely  blossoms  lolled  over 
awkwardly  in  an  increasing  haze  of  dust, 
after  the  manner  of  train  flowers ;  then 
she  stepped  back  to  the  divan  and  in- 
spected the  boxes  of  bon-bons,  stuffed 
dates,  mints,  and  so  on.  A  flat  tin  box  met 
her  eye,  and  a  note  was  tied  against  the 
cover. 

"I  did  n't  notice  that  preserved  ginger," 
she  reflected,  and  picked  up  the  box  with 
satisfaction,  for  the  confection  was  her  fa- 
vorite. Her  own  name  appeared  on  the  note 
in  a  small,  close  chirography  which  was 
unfamiliar.  She  slipped  off  the  metal  cord 
and  opened  the  letter.  Its  beginning  brought 
a  smile  to  her  lips,  and  a  recollection  of 
jocose  passages  between  herself  and  the 
writer,  away  back  in  the  Christmas  holi- 
days. 

160 


En  Route 

Dear  Lady  of  the  Earrings  (she  read) :  — 

If  you  knew  the  circumstances  under 
which  I  stopped  to  buy  these  coals  to  send 
to  Newcastle,  you  would  never  doubt  my 
devotion.  However,  I  '11  not  pose,  but  hasten 
to  tell  you  of  the  meeting  to-night  of  stock- 
holders and  depositors  from  which  I  have 
just  come.  There  was  much  antagonism  to 
be  overcome,  and  I'm  beginning  to  feel  a 
little  dull  in  the  upper  story,  so  it  was  n't  an 
easy  experience;  but  the  outcome  was  so 
good  that  I  slight  my  bed  to  tell  you  briefly 
that  I  now  feel  the  first  relief  from  the  crush- 
ing pressure  of  the  last  few  weeks.  Those 
people  could  have  put  Barry  &  Co.  in  a  hole 
out  of  which  we  could  n't  climb,  and  some 
of  them  were  bitter  and  inclined  to  do  it; 
but  the  majority  were  willing  to  listen  to 
my  representations,  and  the  minority  were 
finally  persuaded. 

We  shall  issue  notes  to  everybody  con- 
cerned, and  they  have  agreed  to  wait  and 
give  Barry  &  Co.  a  chance  to  turn  around, 
and  I  have  good  ground  for  hoping  that  the 
memory  of  that  grand  man,  Lambert  Barry, 
will  be  cleared  of  every  particle  of  the  re- 
proach which  some  angry  and  disappointed 

161 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


people  have  been  flinging  about.  This  night 
has  been  a  great  epoch  in  my  career,  and  if 
I  anticipated  that  there  were  any  more  such 
coming  to  me,  that  little  crib  out  in  the  lake 
would  suit  me  for  a  downy  couch.  As  it  is, 
I  will  now  surprise  my  neglected  bed  by 
getting  into  it  before  three  G.M. 

Bon  voyage,  dear  lady,  and  I  hope  you 
will  sleep  the  better  to-night  for  this  message. 
I  shall  not  communicate  with  Harriet  until 
after  you  have  gone. 

Sincerely  yours, 

BERTRAM  KING. 

Miss  Barry  had  stood  in  the  aisle  during 
the  reading  of  this  epistle,  too  absorbed  to 
notice  the  discomfort  of  lurching  about. 
Now  she  held  the  letter  for  a  space,  in  excited 
thought.  Her  thin  face  was  flushed.  She 
looked  at  Linda,  whose  gaze  was  fixed  on  the 
flat,  flying  landscape.  The  violets  lay  on 
the  seat  beside  her,  disregarded. 

Miss  Barry's  lips  tightened.  "She  does  n't 
deserve  to  know,"  she  thought.  "Oh,  that 
wonderful  young  man!  That  poor  boy!" 

She  seated  herself  opposite  her  traveling 
companion,  and  Linda  languidly  turning  her 

162 


En  Route 

head  at  the  movement,  her  attention  was 
caught  by  the  fact  that  her  aunt  was  wiping 
her  glasses,  and  that  her  eyes  were  wet.  An 
open  letter  lay  in  her  lap. 

Miss  Barry  was  keenly  aware  of  King's 
failure  to  mention  Linda  in  this  matter  so 
nearly  concerning  her.  It  was  only  the  relief 
of  the  news  to  her  own  heart  which  softened 
her  sufficiently  not  to  be  glad  of  this  punish- 
ment to  the  cruel  young  sufferer  opposite. 
She  hoped  remorse  would  follow  the  reading 
in  Linda's  case. 

She  held  out  the  letter  in  silence.  The 
girl  shrank  and  made  a  quick,  protesting 
gesture. 

"I  can't  —  I  can't  bear  any  more!"  she 
said. 

"You  can  bear  this,"  returned  Miss  Barry. 

"But  you're  crying!" 

"With  joy,  Belinda." 

When  her  aunt  gave  the  girl  her  full  name 
it  meant  either  a  climax  of  indignation  or  a 
moment  of  sacred  solemnity.  That  she  knew 
well. 

She  regarded  the  letter  with  apprehension 
as  she  accepted  it,  and  at  once  recognizing 
King's  writing  a  sort  of  hard  strength  stole 

163 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


over  her  expression  as  she  instinctively  pre- 
pared to  resist  his  statements.  He  was 
smooth  and  self-contained  and  clever.  He 
could  deceive  Aunt  Belinda  and  Harriet, 
but  he  could  not  deceive  her. 

After  a  moment  of  vigorous  application  of 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  Miss  Barry 
put  on  her  spectacles  again,  and  leaning 
back  in  the  seat  deliberately  prepared  to 
watch  the  effect  upon  her  niece  of  Ber- 
tram King's  letter. 

Linda's  lips,  set  firmly  as  she  began, 
slowly  relaxed  as  she  read  on,  and  her  eyes 
grew  darker.  She  began  to  breathe  faster, 
and  before  she  finished  such  an  expression 
came  over  the  young  face  that  the  older 
woman  could  no  longer  look,  but  closed  her 
eyes  and  waited.  It  seemed  to  her  a  long 
time  before  she  opened  them  again  to  find 
Linda  regarding  her.  Life  had  revived  in  the 
large  mourning  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Aunt  Belinda.  May  I  keep 
it  a  little  while?" 

"You  may  keep  it  always,"  said  Miss 
Barry  solemnly.  "It  is  more  yours  than 
mine.  Is  n't  that  a  wonderful  young  man, 
Belinda  Barry?  Did  n't  I  always  say  your 

164 


En  Route 

father  was  too  clever  to  trust  the  wrong 
people  ? " 

"Bertram  is  clever,"  said  Linda  simply. 

Miss  Barry  eyed  her  curiously,  far  from 
satisfied.  "It's  just,"  she  thought,  "as  if 
some  mental  starch  had  gone  all  through  the 
girl." 

She  wondered  if  her  niece  had  no  re- 
gret, no  shame,  that  she  had  put  herself 
so  beyond  the  pale  that  Bertram  ignored 
her. 

"Really  she  is  a  handsome  creature," 
thought  Miss  Barry,  still  regarding  her  vis-a- 
vis with  some  sternness. 

"I  hope  as  soon  as  we  get  home  you  will 
make  haste  to  tell  Mr.  King  that  you  appre- 
ciate all  he  has  done." 

"I  do  appreciate  all  he  has  done,"  said 
Linda,  still  with  the  exalted  look  in  her  eyes, 
"but  he  is  doing  his  best  to  make  up  for  it, 
Aunt  Belinda."  She  leaned  over  far  enough 
to  put  her  hand  on  Miss  Barry's  knee,  "If 
this  comes  out  as  Bertram  hopes  I  will  be- 
lieve in  God." 

"Why,  my  dear  child!"  exclaimed  the 
other. 

"I  tell  you  if  a  man  like  my  father  could 
165 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


be  remembered  in  Chicago  as  touched  by 
the  faintest  shade  of  dishonor,  I  should 
know  that  there  could  n't  be  any  God  of 
justice." 

"Very  well,  Belinda,"  replied  Miss  Barry 
warmly;  "if  you  think  so  highly  of  justice 
you'd  better  try  to  practice  it  more  your- 
self." Her  nostrils  dilated. 

Linda  relaxed  and  gave  a  little  one-sided 
smile  as  she  shook  her  head  and  leaned  back 
again. 

"Well,  I  never  did!"  thought  Miss  Barry; 
and  she  too  leaned  back  in  the  corner,  where 
her  niece  forgot  all  about  her. 

What  a  gift,  what  a  wonder,  to  dare  to 
think  about  her  lost  one!  Hitherto  to  dwell 
upon  the  thought  of  him  was  to  be  cut  with 
knives.  The  only  peace  possible  had  been 
negative;  had  been  to  harden  herself  to  in- 
sensibility. 

"It  is  the  Spirit  Flower,"  she  thought,  and 
her  lips  took  a  tender  curve  that  matched  the 
melting  eyes  above  them.  The  association  of 
ideas  brought  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Porter,  for 
it  was  the  song  Linda  had  last  studied  with 
her  teacher  whose  words  flowed  now  through 
her  mind. 

166 


En  Route 

"My  heart  was  frozen,  even  as  the  earth 

That  covered  thee  forever  from  my  sight. 
All  thoughts  of  happiness  expired  at  birth; 

Within  me  naught  but  black  and  starless  night. 

"Down  through  the  winter  sunshine  snowflakes  came, 

All  shimmering,  like  to  silver  butterflies; 
They  seemed  to  whisper  softly  thy  dear  name; 
They  melted  with  the  tear-drops  from  mine  eyes. 

"  But  suddenly  there  bloomed  within  that  hour, 
In  my  poor  heart,  so  seeming  dead,  a  flower 
Whose  fragrance  in  my  life  shall  ever  be: 
The  tender,  sacred  memory  of  thee." 

Linda's  eyes  closed,  and  slow  crystal  drops 
stole  under  the  lids,  but  for  the  first  time  they 
were  not  bitter  tears.  The  journey  would 
now  not  be  wearisome.  For  a  long  time  she 
sat  motionless,  her  eyes  on  the  flying  clouds, 
nurturing  that  spirit  flower. 

She  had  put  Mrs.  Porter's  letters  in  her 
traveling-bag,  and  after  a  time  she  took 
them  out  and  read  them  over,  this  time  with 
more  open  vision.  She  could  not  realize 
how  recent  was  her  bereavement.  She  seemed 
to  have  lived  years  in  this  new  world  into 
which  she  was  born  the  day  they  brought 
her  father  home.  It  was  to  look  back  ages 
to  think  of  their  last  breakfast  together,  his 

167 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


last  embrace.  She  had  asked  that  morning 
to  come  downtown  to  lunch  with  him,  and  he 
had  told  her  that  he  could  n't  spare  the  time. 
At  least  she  had  been  assiduous  that  last 
week.  With  that  world  she  had  had  nothing 
to  do  for  so  long.  It  was  with  this  world, 
this  world  without  her  father  in  it,  that  she 
had  now  to  deal,  a  world  in  which  it  seemed 
to  her  she  had  had  time  to  grow  old. 

Her  mind  roved  busily  to  and  from  the 
lines  of  Mrs.  Porter's  loving  letters  as  she 
read.  This  new  liberty  to  think,  this  hope 
contained  in  Bertram  King's  letter,  endowed 
her  with  an  unrestraint  which  seemed  won- 
derful, and  she  sometimes  read  a  line  six 
times  before  the  roving  mind  grasped  its 
meaning. 

Miss  Barry  had  fallen  asleep  in  her  corner. 
How  weary  and  haggard  her  face  looked  in 
its  repose.  Linda's  wakened  heart  went  out 
to  the  signs  of  her  aunt's  unregarded  sorrow. 

An  express  train  going  in  the  opposite 
direction  crashed  suddenly  by  the  open 
windows  with  a  deafening  racket.  Miss 
Barry  started  and  waked. 

Blinking,  she  realized  her  surroundings, 
and  sat  up.  She  met  her  niece's  eyes.  Linda 

168 


En  Route 

had  taken  up  the  violets  and  her  nose  was 
buried  in  their  soft  fragrance. 

"That  was  too  bad,  Aunt  Belinda,"  she 
said,  leaning  forward.  "It's  growing  very 
warm.  Can't  I  get  you  a  drink?"  she  said. 

"Glory  be!"  thought  Miss  Barry.  "Yes,  I 
wish  you  would,"  she  said  aloud.  Her  eyes 
followed  the  girl,  as  she  slowly  rose  and 
moved  away  to  get  the  water.  "At  last," 
continued  Miss  Barry  mentally,  "she  is  n't 
walking  in  her  sleep." 

She  accepted  the  glass  when  it  came,  and 
drank  thirstily,  although  she  had  not  been 
thirsty. 

When  Linda  returned,  moving  slowly  and 
holding  by  the  seat,  she  did  not  take  the 
place  she  had  vacated,  but  sat  down  beside 
her  aunt. 

"Tell  me  something  about  Father,"  she 
said. 

"What  sort  of  thing?  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Not  the  things  the  newspapers  have 
printed,  about  his  beating  his  way  to  Chicago 
on  the  trains,  and  being  an  errand  boy,  and 
having  no  education,  and  all  that  —  his 
phenomenal  rise  to  fortune.  Not  that." 

169 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Miss  Barry  snorted.  "No  education!  Ab- 
surd! The  newspapers  make  me  sick.  He 
had  education  enough  to  make  him  one  of 
the  smartest  men  in  the  country.  I  should 
think  folks  would  know  better  than  to  believe 
such  stuff." 

"And  you  took  care  of  him,  did  n't  you, 
Aunt  Belinda?  I  never  used  to  want  to 
know  anything  about  his  childhood.  I  grew 
tired  of  hearing  people  say  he  was  a  self- 
made  man,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  know  that 
he  was  barefooted  and  poor.  That  was  an- 
other thorn,"  finished  Linda,  under  her  breath. 

"Another  what?" 

"A  thorn." 

Miss  Barry  looked  around  at  the  speaker. 
"Oh,  a  thorn  in  your  side,  you  mean.  I 
guess  you  .have  always  been  some  high- 
headed,  Linda."  She  used  the  past  tense  in- 
stinctively as  she  viewed  the  pale,  languid 
face  leaning  back  beside  her. 

"You  took  care  of  him  like  a  little  mother," 
persisted  the  girl.  "He  has  told  me  so." 

"Yes,  I  was  only  ten  when  Ma  died,  and 
I  guess  the  papers  would  'a'  been  right 
about  your  father's  education  if  I  had  n't 
saved  her  slippers." 

170 


En  Route 

"You  mean  figuratively?  You  stepped 
into  them." 

"No,  I  don't.  I  mean  it  just  as  literal  as 
anything  could  be  meant.  Pa  was  easy- 
going and  had  enough  to  attend  to,  black- 
smithing  and  selling  flour  and  feed,  so  if  any- 
body was  going  to  spank  Lambert  it  had  to 
be  me." 

Linda's  lips,  pressed  tightly  against  the 
violets,  quivered  against  them. 

"I'm  sure  you  loved  him  tremendously," 
she  said  unsteadily. 

Miss  Barry  sniffed,  with  a  one-sided 
smile.  "I  didn't  have  much  time  to  think 
about  that.  I  had  to  get  breakfast  and  get 
to  school  myself,  and  spank  him  when  he 
ran  away,  and  when  he  hitched  on  trains, 
and  robbed  apple  orchards,  and  so  on,  but 
mostly  when  he  would  n't  go  to  school.  Ma's 
slippers  were  'most  done  for,  when  one  day 
I  caught  him,  and  took  one  of  the  old  tat- 
tered things  and  was  going  to  give  him  what 
he  deserved,  when  he  just  caught  my  arms 
in  his  two  hands,  and  began  to  laugh.  I 
noticed  then  for  the  first  time  that  he  was 
as  tall  as  I  was,  and  his  eyes  looked  straight 
into  mine  the  fullest  of  mischief  you  ever 

171 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


saw.  I  could  feel  myself  getting  as  red  as  a 
beet.  'Let  me  go  this  minute/  I  yelled  at 
him.  'Let  me  go,  Lammie.'  That's  what 
the  schoolboys  called  him  when  they  wanted 
to  be  mean.  He  fought  a  lot  o'  boys  for  that 
before  they  learned  better,  and  I  remember 
exactly  how  he  managed  to  get  both  o'  my 
calico  sleeves  into  one  hand,  and  boxed  my 
ears  with  the  other;  not  real  hard,  he  was 
laughing  all  the  time. 

"'Come  on,  Belinda,'  he  said,  'let's  bury 
the  slipper.'  I  knew  what  he  meant,  because 
the  boys  were  always  playing  Indian,  and 
burying  hatchets;  but,  do  you  know,  he 
made  me  bury  that  shoe  then  and  there? 
He  took  me  outdoors  and  made  me  take  the 
hoe  and  bury  that  slipper  in  the  garden.  He 
stood  over  me,  and  before  I  finished  I  was 
crying,  I  was  so  mad.  I  was  fifteen  then,  and 
he  was  eleven,  but  I  was  small  for  my  age; 
and  that  was  the  end  of  the  spankings.  But 
you  see  by  that  time,"  continued  Miss  Barry 
complacently,  "I'd  made  him  a  real  good 
boy." 

"Yes,  yes,  you  did,"  agreed  Linda  warmly. 
"What  then?" 

"Oh,  then  it  was  lobster  traps,  and  I 
172 


En  Route 

helped  him  with  them,  and  I  got  Father  to 
buy  lobsters  of  him,  and  buy  his  clams,  too, 
and  I  think  Lambert  was  always  sort  of  sorry 
for  me  even  when  I  was  scolding  him.  He 
knew  I  had  a  lot  to  do  for  a  young  one." 

"Yes,"  said  Linda,  with  eagerness,  "and 
he  resolved  to  make  it  up  to  you,  I  know." 

"He  did  make  it  up  to  me.  He  was  the 
best  brother  in  the  world,"  answered  Miss 
Barry  simply. 

The  girl's  lips  trembled  again  against  the 
violets,  and  the  two  watched  the  flying  land- 
scape in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HOME-COMING 

OFTEN  during  the  remainder  of  the  journey 
Linda  questioned  her  aunt  about  her  own 
and  her  father's  childhood.  Hitherto  she  had 
avoided  as  far  as  possible  all  mention  or 
knowledge  of  his  antecedents  and  the  strug- 
gles which  preceded  his  success.  Again  she 
felt  the  relief  consequent  upon  opening  a 
mental  door  until  now  painstakingly  kept 
closed.  Instead  of  the  thorn  again  came  up 
the  fir-tree,  as  her  thoughts,  led  by  Miss 
Barry,  roved  about  the  hard  but  wholesome 
past,  and  she  acquainted  herself  with  the 
good  stock  which  had  produced  her  lost 
treasure. 

"Don't  grieve.  Speed  him  on,"  had  been 
Mrs.  Porter's  tender  and  strong  admonition. 
Linda  tried  to  remember  it  every  time  that 
submerging  wave  of  realized  loss  went  sweep- 
ing suffocatingly  over  her  head. 

Miss  Barry,  rousing  from  practical 
thoughts  of  her  home  and  housekeeping,  or 

174 


Home-Coming 


waking  from  a  nap,  usually  saw  her  niece 
poring  over  letters,  and  occasionally  it  was 
Bertram  King's  that  she  held  in  her  hands, 

Once  when  this  was  the  case  Miss  Belinda 
held  out  a  metal  box.  "Try  some  of  this 
ginger,"  she  said.  "Coals  to  Newcastle! 
Did  you  ever?  Is  n't  Mr.  King  the  impudent 
one?" 

Linda  leaned  politely  toward  the  confec- 
tion, then  drew  back  again. 

"Don't  waste  it  on  me,  Aunt  Belinda.  I 
don't  seem  to  care  for  sweets." 

"Well,  I  hope  Mrs.  Porter  will.  I  can't  eat 
all  these  things  alone,"  replied  Miss  Barry, 
casting  a  glance  toward  the  varied  boxes. 

At  the  same  time  she  let  that  eagle  glance 
come  back  to  her  niece 

"I  hope  you're  going  to  remember,"  she 
said  impressively,  "that  that  fine  man  to 
whom  we  owe  so  much  is  related  to  Mrs. 
Porter." 

"What?"  asked  the  girl  absent-mindedly. 
"Oh,"  suddenly  gathering  her  aunt's  mean- 
ing. "Yes,  certainly." 

Miss  Barry  sniffed.  "Linda,"  she  said, 
"  I  don't  know  but  I  'd  ought  to  go  and  dig  up 
your  grandmother's  slipper!" 

175 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


The  girl  smiled,  and  the  older  woman  shook 
her  head.  "She  is  a  handsome  thing,"  she 
thought. 

Mrs.  Porter  thought  so  too  when  she  met 
them  in  Portland.  In  spite  of  the  change 
wrought  in  her  pupil's  appearance  during  the 
last  month  she  reflected  how  beauty  at 
twenty-one  will  be  beauty  still. 

"There's  no  place  like  home!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Barry,  as  she  accepted  Mrs.  Porter's 
embrace.  "I'm  aching  for  one  look  at  the 


ocean.'1 


"Isn't  she  saucy  to  our  grand  lake?" 
asked  Mrs.  Porter,  putting  her  hand  through 
Linda's  arm,  and  leading  the  way  to  the 
motor  waiting  outside. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  asked  Miss  Barry. 
"The  train's  good  enough  for  us." 

"No,  it's  such  a  beautiful  afternoon.  It 
will  rest  you  both  to  motor  home,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter.  She  supported  Linda's  arm,  noting 
the  feebleness  of  the  girl's  movements. 

The  two  black-clothed  women  entered  the 
car,  the  porter  put  in  their  suit-cases,  Mrs. 
Porter  jumped  in,  and  they  started.  As  yet 
Linda  had  scarcely  spoken.  It  was  curious 
to  her  to  see  her  teacher  thus,  off  duty,  wear- 

176 


Home-Coming 


ing  an  outing  hat  and  corduroy.  She,  who 
had  always  been  surrounded  with  a  wall  of 
delicate  formality  which  no  pupil  save  her- 
self had  ever  had  the  audacity  to  break  down, 
now  smiling,  tanned  and  rosy,  girlish  in  her 
soft  white  hat,  seemed  another  identity. 
Linda  regarded  her  teacher  gravely,  while 
the  latter  responded  cheerfully  to  Miss 
Barry's  questions.  The  sun  shone,  the  breeze 
was  crisp. 

As  they  emerged  into  the  suburbs  and 
countryside,  all  the  joyousness  of  June  smote 
upon  the  travelers'  tired  senses. 

Linda  turned  her  wistful  eyes  away  when 
Mrs.  Porter  met  them,  a  reassuring  strength 
in  her  regard. 

"Jerry  was  so  disappointed  when  I  told 
him  he  need  n't  come  to  the  station  for  us," 
she  said.  "All  your  neighbors  are  excited 
over  your  home-coming." 

"H'm,"  sniffed  Miss  Barry  in  a  one-sided 
smile.  "Luella  accommodatin' any  boarders?" 

"Yes,  a  mother  and  daughter  from  New 
York." 

"H'm.  Their  bones  beginning  to  show 
yet?" 

Mrs.  Porter  laughed.  "If  it  is  as  you  say, 
177 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


why  should  n't  Miss  Luella  advertise  a  re- 
ducing establishment?  I'm  sure  it  would 
pay." 

The  speaker's  cheer  covered  a  pang. 
Linda's  slenderness  and  pallor  spoke  elo- 
quently, and  made  her  forget  the  girl's  prob- 
able injustice  to  Bertram  King. 

Linda  had  made  but  one  visit  before  to  the 
Cape.  That  was  ten  years  ago,  when  her 
aunt's  cottage  was  first  built.  It  had  been  a 
flying  trip  with  her  father  and  mother,  and 
she  had  slight  recollection  of  the  place.  Her 
mother  had  cared  more  for  mountains  than 
sea,  and  Linda  had  visited  them  on  both 
sides  of  the  ocean.  It  was  now  to  a  practically 
new  place  that  the  motor  was  carrying  her. 

She  straightened  herself  with  interest  when 
the  settlement  came  in  sight,  and  her  large 
gaze  sought  for  the  little  house  that  had  been 
her  father's  gift  of  love  to  his  sister. 

Mrs.  Porter  saw  her  eagerness.  "Just 
about  three  minutes  away  now,"  she  said. 

"Is  that  it?  The  brown  one?"  asked  the 
girl  as  they  neared  the  rocky  point. 

"Yes,  the  Gull's  Nest,"  replied  Mrs.  Por- 
ter. "I  don't  know  what  Miss  Barry  calls  it, 
but  how  could  it  have  any  other  name?" 

178   ' 


Home-Coming 


"Lambert  was  always  telling  me  to  name 
it  and  he'd  give  me  some  writing  paper, 
stamped." 

"And  why  did  n't  you?" 

"I  did."  Miss  Barry  tossed  her  head  a 
little  toward  the  welcoming  waves. 

"What  is  it?"   asked  Mrs.  Porter  eagerly. 

"Oh,  no  matter,"  returned  Miss  Belinda. 

"You  haven't  told?  Do  you  mean  you 
haven't  told?"  Mrs.  Porter's  eyes  twinkled 
at  the  proof  of  New  England  reticence. 

"What's  in  a  name,  anyway?"  returned 
Miss  Belinda  evasively. 

Her  niece  regarded  the  flush  on  her  aunt's 
thin  cheek  wistfully,  and  wondered  what  bit 
of  sentiment  she  was  concealing. 

The  wonder  heightened  the  interest  with 
which  she  entered  the  cottage.  The  little 
house  was  unexpectedly  roomy  within.  Lam- 
bert Barry  had  given  his  sister  carte  blanche 
as  to  coziness,  provided  she  would  have  room 
enough  for  him  and  his  when  they  could 
arrange  to  come;  but  the  nearness  to  the 
great  diapason  of  the  waves  had  repelled 
his  wife,  and  after  he  lost  her  the  engrossed 
business  man  could  make  only  flying  visits 
to  the  scenes  of  his  childhood.  There  were 

179 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


the  rooms,  however,  and  Linda  was  soon 
led  to  hers. 

"It's  the  one  I  always  called  your  father's 
room,  Linda,"  said  Miss  Barry,  as  she  ush- 
ered her  in. 

Mrs.  Porter,  after  brief  explanation  of  her 
preparations,  had  remained  below  stairs  to 
leave  them  alone. 

Linda  looked  from  the  windows  on  the 
limitless  ocean,  dotted  with  distant  sails; 
on  the  fleecy  islands  of  cloud  in  a  sky  as  blue, 
as  limitless. 

She  turned  back  to  her  companion.  A  look 
of  satisfaction  had  overspread  her  aunt's 
wan  face. 

"You've  been  very  good  to  me,  Aunt  Be- 
linda," she  said  deliberately.  "I've  known 
it  all  the  time,  but  I  shall  appreciate  it  more 
and  more." 

"Well,  well,  that's  all  right,  child,"  re- 
turned the  other  hastily.  "I  think  there's 
everything  here  to  make  you  comfortable. 
The  bathroom's  here,  between  your  room 
and  mine;  and  if  there's  anything  you  want 
that  you  don't  see,  just  let  me  know." 

She  went  out  and  left  Linda  standing 
there,  her  wide  gaze  fixed  on  the  open  sea  and 

1 80 


Home-Coming 


ships.  Islands  were  but  distant  scenes  from 
the  Cape.  Here  the  granite  cliffs  rose  high 
and  higher.  She  could  get  glimpses  along  the 
shore  of  their  hollows,  which  soon  would 
shelter  luxuriant  deep-pink  wild  roses,  but 
now  waved  with  snowy  daisies,  flirting 
with  the  foam  which  ever  sought  to  reach 
them. 

An  hour  afterward  she  went  downstairs, 
and  found  Mrs.  Porter  sitting  with  a  book  in 
the  glassed-in  end  of  the  veranda. 

"See?  I've  been  saving  this  hammock  for 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  looking  up. 

Linda  stood  still  .and  smiled,  looking  with 
fascinated  eyes  at  the  sea. 

Mrs.  Porter  remained  quiet,  watching  the 
girl's  face  grow  grave. 

"It's  very  wonderful  after  the  city,  is  n't 
it?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"Yes.  The  noise  on  the  avenue  was  con- 
stant, then  the  banging  and  confusion  of 
trains.  This  is  like  being  born  into  a  new 
world.  I  was  wondering  just  now  if  Father 
felt  that  same  great  contrast  and  peace  when 
he  waked  up." 

"I'm  sure  he  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Porter. 
She  said  no  more  to  urge  her  friend  to  lie 

181 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


down,  but  dropped  her  book  and  took  up 
some  sewing  that  lay  on  the  table  beside  her. 

Pretty  soon  Linda  came  over  to  the  ham- 
mock and  seated  herself  on  its  edge,  and  at 
that  moment  Miss  Barry  appeared  with  an 
armful  of  neglected  bon-bon  boxes. 

"This  is  day  before  yesterday's  candy," 
she  announced,  "but  most  of  them  haven't 
been  opened  at  all,  and  any  that  you  don't 
want  will  find  a  market  in  the  neighborhood." 
The  speaker  raised  her  eyebrows  significantly. 

Mrs.  Porter  smiled.  "Poor  little  Blanche 
Aurora,  for  instance.  She's  been  a  good  little 
helper." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  she  has  n't 
broken  dishes." 

"Well,  not  so  very  many,  really.  She's 
been  very  much  excited  over  your  home- 
coming." 

When  Jerry  came  with  the  trunks,  his 
sea-blue  eyes  regarded  Linda  with  respectful 
interest,  while  he  shook  hands  with  her 
aunt. 

"Ye  look  some  faded,  Belinda,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"I'll  pick  up,"  was  the  reply.  "This  is  my 
niece,  Cap'n  Holt." 

182 


Home-Coming 


Linda  brought  her  absent-minded  gaze 
back  with  a  start,  realizing  that  the  "ex- 
pressman" was  being  introduced  to  her. 

He  put  out  his  rough  hand  kindly,  and  she 
saw  by  his  expression  that  he  was  acknowl- 
edging her  bereavement.  She  put  her  hand 
in  his  in  silence. 

"Cap'n  Holt  knew  your  father,  Linda," 
said  Mrs.  Porter. 

The  girl's  eyes  met  his.  "Did  you  work 
for  my  father?"  she  asked. 

"Dunno  'bout  that,"  was  the  good-hu- 
mored response.  "I  was  the  oldest,  and  I 
guess  mebbe  he  worked  fer  me  some." 

Cap'n  Holt's  lips  twitched  as  if  a  humor- 
ous continuation  of  his  declaration  was  im- 
minent, but  Linda's  grave  looks  and  her 
black  gown  restrained  him.  A  faint  color 
mounted  to  the  girl's  cheeks.  She  must 
remember  hereafter! 

"He  was  well  liked  around  here,  your 
father  was,"  finished  Jerry  Holt  warmly. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Linda,  and  Jerry 
dropped  her  smooth  young  hand  awkwardly. 

"Sometime  you  must  tell  me  about  when 
he  was  a  little  boy,"  she  continued,  still  gaz- 
ing at  him. 

183 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Jerry  Holt  winked  hard  as  he  drove  his 
team  away  from  those  appealing  eyes.  "She 
takes  it  hard,"  he  said  to  himself,  "she  takes 
it  hard." 

Luella  Benslow  had  seen  him  drive  by 
with  the  trunks,  and  she  was  working  in 
her  garden  as  he  returned.  Luella  had 
not  succeeded  in  entirely  breaking  down 
the  reserve  of  that  pleasant-faced  Mrs. 
Porter,  who  had  been  keeping  house  for 
Belinda.  The  socially  experienced  musician 
had  known  how  to  awe  her.  Luella  was 
by  no  means  certain  that  Belinda  Barry's 
loss  had  dulled  her  speech,  so  she  re- 
strained the  curiosity  which  urged  her  to 
create  an  immediate  errand  at  the  Barry 
cottage. 

Jerry  must  pass  her  house  on  his  return,  so 
she  set  herself  to  work  at  piling  some  wood, 
her  father  not  being  amenable  to  the  per- 
forming of  such  an  arduous  task. 

Her  regimentals  for  such  labor  consisted  of 
a  deep  shaker  bonnet  provided  with  a  flowing 
collar,  in  which  her  complexion  was  shielded. 
She  also  wore  a  complication  of  capes,  and  a 
terraced  arrangement  of  aprons,  one  above 
the  other,  the  whole  giving  the  strong,  spor- 

184 


Home-Coming 


tive  sea  wind  an  assorted  lot  of  banners, 
which  it  tossed  in  all  directions. 

As  Jerry's  wagon  approached,  Luella  was 
too  deafened  by  the  wind  and  her  shaker  to 
hear  the  wheels  on  the  soft  earth.  She  was  at 
the  roadside,  gathering  the  smaller  wood 
which  had  fallen  by  the  way,  and  the  back 
view  of  her  stooping  figure  presented  an  ap- 
pearance which  Jerry's  steed,  mentally  con- 
sulting a  long  experience,  could  not  remember 
to  have  seen  paralleled.  Deciding  that  it 
would  be  on  the  safe  side  to  approach  no 
nearer,  Molly  planted  her  forefeet,  and  all 
Jerry's  adjurations  failed  to  persuade  her  to 
move.  Her  eloquent  ears  went  forward  and 
back. 

At  last  there  came  borne  to  Luella  a  sten- 
torian yell. 

'Git  up!  Git  up,  I  tell  ye,  Luella." 

She  slowly  lifted  her  head,  turned,  and 
brushing  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes  beheld 
Molly  with  feet  planted  and  ears  laid  back. 
Jerry  was  standing  up  in  his  wagon,  ges- 
ticulating with  his  whip. 

"Git  up,  I  tell  ye!  The  hoss  won't  go  by 
ye!"  he  yelled. 

Luella  arose  with  alacrity,  but  slowly,  her 
185 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


arms  full  of  kindling.  This  she  dropped  in- 
continently, and  Molly  shied  as  the  fluttering 
figure  ran  forward. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Jerry.  Don't  go 
till  you  tell  me  afeout  'em!"  she  said  breath- 
lessly. "Do  excuse  my  looks,"  she  added 
with  a  simper. 

"I  can  overlook  'em  if  Molly  can,"  replied 
Jerry. 

Both  Molly  and  Luella  seemed  to  be  in- 
dulging in  a  return  to  the  skittishness  of 
youth. 

Jerry  had  twice  taken  Luella  home  from 
singing  school  in  days  gone  by,  and  he  had 
been  ticketed  as  one  of  her  beaux  ever  since! 
a  might-have-been  with  whom  she  consist- 
ently played  the  game. 

She  pushed  her  shaker  back.  "Have  you 
seen  the  orphan?"  she  added,  again  brushing 
stray  locks  of  hair  out  of  her  curious  eyes. 

"Yes." 

"What's  she  like?  Awful  proud,  I  s'pose." 

"Mebbe.  She  favors  Lambert.  He  went 
some  on  looks,  you  remember." 

"How  should  I  remember?"  returned 
Luella  with  a  coy  smile,  which  showed 
dentally  the  evenness  of  piano  keys.  "I 

186 


Home-Coming 


was  so  much  younger  than  you  and  Mr. 
Barry." 

"I  wish  Luella's  teeth  wouldn't  kind  o' 
drop,"  reflected  Jerry  Holt.  "It  makes  me 
dizzy." 

He  snapped  his  whip  gently,  while  Molly, 
reassured,  rested  in  the  first  position. 

"I  think  I'd  ought  to  call  real  soon,"  said 
Luella.  "Don't  you?" 

"Well,  'f  I  was  you  I'd  let  'em  ketch  their 
breath,"  remarked  Jerry  impersonally. 

"The  Mrs.  Lindsay  and  her  daughter 
stayin'  with  me,  they're  related  to  a  young 
man  in  Chicago  that's  a  dear  friend  o'  the 
Barrys,"  went  on  Luella  eagerly.  "I  think 
't  would  make  the  orphan  feel  more  to  home 
to  know  she  had  a  mewchal  friend  in  the 
neighborhood.  Don't  you?" 

"Could  n't  say,"  drawled  Jerry. 

"Sh!"  hissed  Luella,  lowering  her  voice 
portentously.  "The  ladies  are  about  sure 
their  relation  had  all  his  money  in  Lambert 
Barry's  bank.  Sh!  They  think  from  all 
they've  heard  he  was  a  scoundrel.  You  can't 
talk  about  folks  that's  dead,  though,  can 


you?" 


:  Well,  some  folks  find  it's  the  safest  time.5 
187 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Well,  what  do  you  think,  Jerry?"  she 
asked,  still  low-voiced,  pressing  close  to  the 
wagon. 

"I  think  I  got  to  be  goin'.  Careful  there, 
Luella.  Don't  let  Molly  step  on  ye." 

"Well,"  she  returned,  retreating,  "I've 
always  believed  I  could  write  a  play  as  good 
as  anybody  else  for  those  here  emotion 
pictures,  and  this  'd  be  a  splendid  story, 
with  Lambert  Barry  for  the  villain,  and  his 
beautiful  daughter  believin'  in  him;  don't 
you  think  so?  I'd  make  her  beautiful,  you 
know." 

Jerry  Holt's  lips  twitched  as  he  gathered 
up  the  reins. 

"Well,  one  thing  sure,  Nature's  saved  ye 
the  trouble  there,  Luella.  Git  ap,  Molly." 

Luella  looked  after  the  wagon,  her  mouth 
open  in  her  interest.  Her  friend's  meaning 
slowly  percolated.  Then  she  hurried  toward 
the  house,  removing  aprons  as  she  went,  to 
inform  her  boarders  of  the  arrival. 


1 88 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BLANCHE    AURORA 

WHEN  Linda  waked  next  morning,  she  had 
been  dreamless  for  nine  hours;  sunk  so  deep 
in  slumber  after  weeks  of  restless,  fitful  naps 
that  the  return  to  earth  was  a  slow,  scarcely 
credible  process.  A  soothing,  rhythmic  sweep 
of  sound  seemed  saying,  "Sleep  on.  Sleep 
on";  but  a  song  sparrow  perched  on  the 
corner  of  the  sloping  roof  above  her  window 
was  loudly  declaring  that  it  was  ecstasy  to 
waken.  The  rapturous  burst,  often  repeated, 
won  her  slow  attention.  The  sun  shone 
through  the  rosy  curtains  and  a  breeze 
fanned  her  opening  eyes.  She  turned  her 
face  into  her  pillow.  Her  first  thought  as 
ever  of  her  father,  she  seemed  to  commune 
with  him. 

"I'm  here  in  your  room,  dear.  I  dare 
think  about  you.  The  insults  are  going  to 
cease,  dearest,  dearest!" 

Her  rested  brain  recalled  those  sentences 
in  one  of  Mrs.  Porter's  letters,  prophetic 

189 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


words  of  what  the  public  verdict  would  be 
when  truth  began  to  appear.  Then  had 
come  King's  reassurance.  She  knew  each 
phrase  of  both  letters  by  heart. 

Mrs.  Porter  had  put  Miss  Barry's  best 
photograph  of  her  brother  on  the  dresser  in 
this  room.  Turning,  Linda  again  opened  her 
eyes  and  they  rested  upon  it.  For  a  moment 
she  gazed,  then  rose  with  a  sense  of  refresh- 
ment. How  quiet  the  house  was!  She  took 
her  bath  and  dressed,  still  without  hearing 
a  human  movement,  and  at  last  went  down- 
stairs to  the  empty  living-room.  The  old- 
fashioned  clock  above  the  fireplace  pointed 
to  nine  forty-five. 

"I  surely  am  a  petted  child!"  thought 
Linda.  She  moved  through  the  dining-room 
and  was  going  to  the  kitchen  when  the  swing 
door  suddenly  opened,  nearly  striking  her, 
and  a  girl  of  thirteen  years  appeared.  By 
dint  of  peeking  around  the  corner  of  the 
house,  Blanche  Aurora  had  obtained  a 
glimpse  of  the  tall  slender  figure  in  black 
when  aunt  and  niece  arrived  yesterday;  and 
of  the  two,  Linda  was  the  more  surprised 
at  the  sudden  encounter  now. 

In  any  case,  Blanche  Aurora  was  not 
190 


Blanche  Aurora 


easily  daunted.  She  had  spent  years  in 
twitching  smaller  brothers  and  sisters  into 
the  path  of  duty.  Perhaps  the  necessity  of 
her  being  "careful  about  many  things,"  not- 
withstanding her  youth,  had  drawn  Miss 
Belinda  to  her  in  sympathetic  remembrance 
of  her  own  childhood;  but  if  that  was  the 
case,  it  had  resulted  in  no  tenderness  given 
or  received.  Theirs  was  a  relation  of  armed 
neutrality  in  which  neither  ever  got  much 
the  better  of  the  other. 

Blanche  Aurora's  eyes  were  round,  ex- 
pressionless, and  light  blue.  Each  of  the  two 
pigtails  of  her  red  hair  had  a  string  braided 
in  with  it  to  discourage  relaxation,  and  this 
cord  was  twisted  around  their  ends  with  a 
determined  hand,  the  whole  so  tightly  reined 
that  each  braid  turned  up  at  the  end  like  a 
fishhook. 

A  dozen  times  this  morning  she  had  pushed 
open  the  swing  door  under  the  impression 
that  she  heard  the  guest  descend:  the  won- 
derful guest,  who  never  had  to  touch  foot 
to  the  ground,  but  rolled  around  in  carriages 
and  ate  off  gold  plates.  Blanche  Aurora  had 
vaguely  expected  something  so  overwhelm- 
ing in  the  appearance  of  the  millionaire's 
191 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


daughter  that  the  apparition  of  Linda  in  a 
plain  white  gown,  not  glittering  at  any  point, 
was  somewhat  disappointing.  The  flat- 
chested  little  maid  viewed  the  tall  girl's 
shining,  waving  hair  and  her  large,  grave  eyes 
for  a  moment;  then  she  spoke:  — 

"Pretty  near  hit  you,  did  n't  I?"  she  said 
airily. 

"My  aunt  — "  murmured  Linda. 

"They've  gone  to  see  the  chickens,  and 
I'm  to  give  you  your  breakfast.  There's 
your  place." 

Blanche  Aurora's  businesslike,  no-time-to- 
spare  finger  pointed  to  the  white  table  which 
bore  a  dish  of  fruit  and  a  single  gold-banded 
plate  with  its  complement  of  silver  and 
napkin. 

Linda  sat  down  meekly. 

"I  s'pose  you'll  want  a  finger-bowl,"  said 
Blanche  Aurora. 

"If  —  if  it's  convenient,"  replied  Linda. 

The  other  actually  smiled.  "Ho!  We've 
got  lots  of  'em,"  she  returned,  and  stalked  to 
the  sideboard,  where  she  poured  water  into 
a  bowl  and  placed  it  close  by  Linda's 
elbow. 

While  the  guest  opened  an  orange,  the 
192 


Blanche  Aurora 


light-blue  eyes  watched  her  white  ringless 
hands.  "She  don't  look  a  bit  rich,"  thought 
Blanche  Aurora,  "but  I'll  bet  she's  stuck- 
up." 

She  withdrew  against  the  wall,  from 
whence  Linda  felt  her  unwinking,  round  stare. 

"Are  you  my  aunt's  little  maid?"  asked 
the  girl,  after  the  silence  began  to  be  em- 
barrassing. 

"No,"  came  the  prompt  reply,  "I'm  her 
help."  All  Blanche  Aurora's  remarks  were 
made  in  a  loud  tone  as  if  she  were  talking 
against  the  sound  of  the  sea.  "I  come  after 
I  git  the  children  to  school." 

"Children?" 

"My  brothers  and  sisters." 

Linda  glanced  up  at  the  short,  slight  form 
clad  in  a  faded  gingham  dress  that  was  out- 
grown. 

"Don't  you  go  to  school  yourself?" 

"Ho!  No!  I  got  through  last  year;  I'm 
thirteen." 

A  pause,  during  which  the  help  reluctantly 
admired  Linda's  hands  and  her  deft  manner 
of  manipulating  spoon  and  orange.  As  the 
guest  laid  down  the  empty  rind,  her  com- 
panion's voice  rent  the  air. 

193 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Oatmeal,  wheatena,  and  all  the  cold 
cereals!"  she  vociferated. 

Linda  started.  "I  —  I  don't  really 
care — " 

"One's  jest  as  easy  as  the  other.  They're 
all  handy." 

"I'll  take  the  —  oatmeal,  please,"  replied 
Linda  under  the  pressure  of  that  strenuous 
reassurance. 

During  the  brief  absence  of  the  small 
maid,  the  girl  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and 
looked  through  the  open  windows  fronting 
the  sea. 

Presently,  Blanche  Aurora's  foot  kicked 
open  the  swing  door  and  she  advanced  with 
the  cereal  and  noted  that  the  guest  shivered. 

"Be  ye  cold?"  she  questioned  sharply;  "I 
can  shet  the  winders." 

"Yes,  I  wish  you  would.  This  is  like  eat- 
ing on  a  boat." 

"I  hate  bo'ts,"  vouchsafed  the  help,  and 
crossing  to  the  windows  slammed  them 
down,  after  which  she  resumed  her  position 
against  the  wall  while  Linda  served  herself 
with  oatmeal. 

"There's  coffee  and  rolls  and  eggs," 
shouted  Blanche  Aurora  after  half  a  minute 

194 


Blanche  Aurora 


of  dead  silence  during  which  the  clock 
ticked. 

Linda  jufriped  again.  The  help  was  so  very 
responsible  and  so  clean  and  wiry  that  she 
smiled  as  she  lifted  her  eyes. 

"I've  got  an  hourglass  and  you're  to  tell 
me  when  you  want  'em  put  on." 

"What?" 

"The  eggs;  they're  good  and  fresh.  Luella 
Benslow's  hens  laid  'em." 

"Are  those  the  hens  Aunt  Belinda  has 
gone  to  see?" 

"Yes;  Mis'  Porter  wanted  to  see  the  hens 
that  have  hot-water  bags." 

Linda  kept  on  smiling. 

"Dear  me!"  she  said.  "What  is  your 
name,  please?" 

"Blanche  Aurora  Martin,"  came  the 
prompt  report;  "but  you  don't  have  to  say 
the  Martin.  It's  Blanche  Aurora  for  short." 

"I  see;  and  I  am  Miss  Barry." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  was  the  prompt  reply; 
"but  I  made  up  my  mind  to  call  you  Miss 
Belinda  'cause  if  there  was  two  Miss  Barrys, 
I  could  n't  stand  it." 

"Really?  Very  well;  but  what  did  you 
mean  about  hens  with  hot-water  bags?" 

195 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Why,  Luella  puts  'em  in  every  nest  when 
it  comes  cold,  and  Mis'  Porter,  she  laughed 
and  laughed  when  she  heard  about  it; 
Luella 's  some  slack  about  lots  o'  things,  but 
she's  got  real  good  ideas  about  helpin'  the 
hens  along  and  Mis'  Porter  wanted  Miss 
Barry  should  take  her  over  and  see  'em." 
Blanche  Aurora's  sharp  gaze  noted  the  guest's 
languid  appetite  as  evinced  by  the  slight 
diminution  of  the  oatmeal.  "The  eggs  is 
real  good,"  she  continued,  "and  I've  got  an 
hourglass." 

Linda  lifted  her  somber  eyes  and  showed 
the  tips  of  her  white  teeth  again. 

"I  hope  you  don't  boil  them  an  hour, 
Blanche  Aurora  ? " 

It  was  n't  very  often  that  Miss  Barry's 
maid  was  offered  a  joke,  but  the  relaxing  of 
her  thin  cheeks  now  showed  that  she  could 
take  one. 

"No  danger!"  she  returned  smartly.  But 
the  suggestion  of  eggs,  even  those  laid 
luxuriously  in  the  proximity  of  a  hot-water 
bag,  could  not  tempt  the  pale  guest  this 
morning. 

"Coffee  and  toast  sound  very  good,"  she 
said.  "No  eggs  this  morning,  I  think." 

196 


Blanche  Aurora 


"Hev  it  your  own  way,"  returned  the 
help;  "we  cal'late  to  give  you  what  you 
want,"  and  at  once  she  attacked  the  swing 
door.  The  little  creature's  sudden  energy  of 
motion  after  absolute  repose  was  like  her 
stentorian  tones  breaking  dead  silence. 

When  coffee  and  toast  were  set  before  the 
guest,  Blanche  Aurora  again  supported  the 
wall  and  watched  her  charge  with  an  unre- 
mitting stare. 

"You  don't  need  to  wait,"  said  Linda. 

"I  druther,"  returned  Blanche  Aurora 
with  a  finality  which  admitted  of  no  argu- 
ment. 

The  guest  followed  the  line  of  least  resist- 
ance. 

"Is  Mrs. is  the  hen  lady  one  of  your 

neighbors  ? " 

"Luella  Benslow?  Yes,  she  and  her  father. 
Her  father 's  a  wonderful  man  —  Luella's 
father  is." 

"What  does  he  do?" 

"Well,  he  don't  do  nothin'  much.  He 
never  did  support  his  family  nor  anythin' 
like  that;  but  he  has  such  wonderful  'com- 
plishments.  There  ain't  nobody  can  ketch  a 
frog  like  Cy  Benslow  can." 

197 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Linda  looked  up  and  felt  color  coming  into 
her  cheeks  in  the  novel  desire  to  laugh. 

"How  does  he  do  it?" 

"Like  this."  The  round  light  eyes  gained 
a  spark  of  interest  as  Blanche  Aurora  began 
describing  large  circles  in  the  air  with  her 
right  hand,  and  advancing  toward  the  table 
with  a  stealthy  tread.  As  she  approached, 
the  circles  contracted  gradually,  until  close 
to  the  guest  they  had  narrowed  to  a  small 
ring  out  of  which  the  hand  made  a  jab 
toward  the  victim's  face,  and  Linda  jerked 
her  head  back. 

Blanche  Aurora  smiled  in  triumph  and 
returned  to  her  place. 

"I  —  I  really  thought  you  had  my  nose!" 

"That's  jest  it.  Ye  see  the  frog's  got  to 
look  so  many  directions,  he  don't  know 
which  way  to  jump,  so  he's  jest  kind  o' 
par'lyzed  and  gits  ketched." 

"Very  ingenious,"  laughed  Linda. 

Yes,  she  laughed.  Blanche  Aurora,  un- 
conscious that  she  had  performed  a  feat 
eclipsing  Cy  Benslow's,  warmed  to  her 
theme. 

"And  you  jest  ought  to  see  him  git  worms 
for  bait." 

198 


Blanche  Aurora 


"Now,  Blanche  Aurora,  it  was  bad  enough 
to  be  a  frog.    I  positively  decline  to  be  a 


worm." 


"You  don't  have  to  be.  I'll  jest  tell  ye 
about  it.  He  goes  up  to  a  post,  Cy  does." 
The  speaker  moved  forward,  and  Linda  put 
out  a  warning  hand. 

"Nor  a  post  either,  Blanche  Aurora.  I 
firmly  decline  to  be  a  post." 

"And  he  takes  a  board  and  scrapes  it 
back  and  forrard  across  the  post;  it  grits 
somethin'  awful,  and  the  shakin'  gets  to  the 
worms  somehow  and  they  begin  comin'  up 
out  o'  the  ground  to  see  what's  goin'  on, 
and"  —  Blanche  Aurora  nodded  signifi- 
cantly—  "and  that's  the  last  they  do  see, 
I  can  tell  ye.  They  go  whack  into  Cy's  pail 
and  ketch  his  dinner  for  him." 

"What  a  wizard!" 

"No,  he  don't  get  no  lizards,  and  I'm 
glad  we  don't  have  'em.  There  was  a  lady 
once  boardin'  to  Benslows'  and  she  had  one 
with  a  chain  to  its  leg  and  she  let  it  run  all 
over  her.  Bah!"  the  speaker  shuddered. 
"  I  'd  hate  to  feel  their  scrabbly  feet,  would  n't 


you?" 


I've    finished,    Blanche    Aurora,"    said 
199 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Linda  hastily.  She  pushed  her  chair  back 
from  the  table.  There  was  pressure  in  her 
throat  and  in  her  eyes.  She  rose  abruptly. 

"Say!  you  forgot  your  finger-bowl," 
shouted  her  waitress  after  the  figure  swiftly 
retreating  toward  the  piazza. 


200 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    HARBOR 

BLANCHE  AURORA'S  prey  could  not  so  easily 
escape  her.  She  had  been  left  in  charge  of 
Linda  and  she  followed  her  now  to  the  porch : 
that  exciting  porch  surmounting  a  castle  wall 
of  rock,  with  soft  niches  of  green  where 
Nature's  mother-hand  found  vulnerable  spots 
to  plant  her  lovely  ferns  and  flowers. 

To  Blanche  Aurora  the  situation  of  the 
cottage  was  objectionably  noisy  and  windy, 
and  she  often  wished  her  employer's  house 
could  be  moved  back  on  the  road  where  one 
could  see  the  passing.  She  scowled  now 
against  the  dazzling  sun  and  boisterous  wind. 

"Be  you  goin'  to  set  out  here?"  she 
roared  at  Linda. 

"How  beautiful  it  is!"  escaped  involun- 
tarily from  the  guest. 

"Then  I'll  git  you  some  warm  things. 
You're  sick  and  delicate!"  yelled  Blanche 
Aurora  as  one  whom  the  roar  of  old  Ocean 
could  not  down. 

201 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Linda  looked  at  the  slim  child  in  the  faded 
gingham.  The  salt  air  went  through  her 
piercingly. 

"I'm  not  delicate  at  all!"  she  protested, 
but  little  cared  her  mentor  for  her  defense. 

She  straightway  brought  a  steamer-rug, 
shawl  and  pillows  from  a  near-by  closet. 

"There!"  she  said,  depositing  them  in  the 
hammock  on  the  glassed-in  end  of  the  porch. 
She  gave  her  queer  little  grimace  of  a  smile 
and  again  her  thin  cheeks  wrinkled.  "Miss 
Barry  said  you  looked  like  a  hothouse  plant, 
so  I  guess  you  'd  better  stay  under  glass  for  a 
spell." 

"Are  n't  you  cold  yourself  in  that  cal  — 
that  thin  dress?"  asked  Linda. 

"I  dunno.    I  don't  believe  so." 

Linda's  eyes  grew  softer.  It  was  so  evi- 
dent that  the  little  care-taker  had  small 
leisure  to  think  of  her  sensations. 

"Lay  down  and  I'll  cover  you,"  com- 
manded Blanche  Aurora. 

"Lie  down?  No,  indeed.   I'm  just  up." 

The  help  paused  with  the  rug  in  her  thin 
arms.  She  was  undecided  as  to  whether  to 
humor  this  rebellion. 

"Blanche  Aurora,  do  you  like  candy?" 
202 


The  Harbor 


The  slender  face  lost  its  worried  expres- 
sion and  grew  younger. 

"There  ain't  much  sense  to  that  ques- 
tion," she  returned. 

"Then  come  into  the  house  with  me," 
said  Linda. 

The  wraps  were  dropped  in  the  hammock 
and  willing  feet  followed  the  guest. 

From  a  cabinet  in  the  corner  of  the  room 
Linda  chose  the  reddest  of  red  boxes,  gen- 
erous in  size,  and  placed  it  in  a  pair  of  eager 
hands. 

Blanche  Aurora  viewed  the  prize,  amazed. 
"I  ain't  ever  in  my  life  had  all  the  candy  I 
wanted,"  she  said  in  such  awed  tones  that 
Linda  smiled  and  reached  for  a  violet  box 
which  she  piled  upon  the  other. 

"Oh!"  gasped  the  recipient.  She  looked 
up  at  the  pale  guest  with  a  new  realization 
of  what  it  meant  to  be  a  millionaire's  daugh- 
ter. Gold  plates  and  carriages  sounded  fine, 
but  it  was  only  like  hearing  about  Cinder- 
ella and  other  impossible  maidens.  Here 
were  tangible  chocolates  given  away  reck- 
lessly and  with  nonchalance.  What  a  con- 
sciousness that  bespoke! 

As  they  stood  there,  Linda,  watching  her 
203 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


erstwhile  mentor  endure  an  ecstatic  paraly- 
sis, Miss  Barry  and  Mrs.  Porter  entered. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Linda  Barry!" 
exclaimed  her  aunt.  "I'll  keep  those  boxes 
myself  and  give  the  child  a  few  at  a  time. 
She'll  make  herself  sick."  She  hurried 
forward,  but  Linda  pressed  her  back. 

"Let  her  make  herself  sick,"  she  pleaded. 
"I'll  take  care  of  her." 

Miss  Barry  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
undecidedly.  She  recognized  this  surpris- 
ingly good  symptom  in  her  niece,  but  such  a 
wholesale  relaxation  of  discipline  toward  the 
most  willful,  stubborn  child  on  the  Cape 
was  unheard  of. 

While  she  hesitated,  Linda  stepped  to  one 
side  and  made  room  for  the  "help"  to  pass, 
which  Blanche  Aurora  made  haste  to  do,  the 
wonderful  boxes  clutched  in  her  arms,  and 
the  fishhook  braids  vibrating  with  the 
double  excitement  of  her  gift  and  getting  the 
better  of  her  employer. 

Mrs.  Porter  watched  Linda  thoughtfully. 
When  she  and  Miss  Barry  a  few  minutes  ago 
had  left  Luella  Benslow  and  her  pampered 
hens,  and  their  hilarious  mood  had  quieted, 
the  younger  woman  had  at  once  brought  up 

204 


The  Harbor 


the  subject  of  Bertram  King,  whose  situa- 
tion dwelt  much  in  her  mind.  As  they  walked 
across  the  soft  grass  she  took  Miss  Barry's 
arm. 

"Tell  me  about  my  cousin,  Mr.  King. 
How  does  he  look?" 

"Like  the  last  run  o'  shad,"  returned  Miss 
Barry  promptly. 

"I  never  met  a  belated  shad." 

"Well,  you've  eaten  'em,  haven't  you? 
I'd  just  as  soon  eat  a  fried  paper  of  pins." 

"You  mean  that  Bertram  is  thin?" 

"Just  so.  He  looks  as  if  he  'd  been 
through  the  war,  and  so  he  has." 

"I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  go  back  to 
him." 

"Law!  Don't  leave  me  yet!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Barry  in  a  panic.  "You're  the  only 
person  Linda  can  stand  the  sight  of.  Oh! 
if  I'm  not  glad  to  get  home!"  The  speaker 
inflated  her  lungs  and  stepped  lightly. 

"You  say  she  blames  Bertram  for  her 
father's  misfortunes." 

"Yes;  and  I  guess  she  ain't  the  only  one, 
from  what  Harriet  says.  Lots  o'  folks  think 
my  brother  pinned  his  faith  to  Mr.  King's 
judgment  in  taking  on  a  new  proposition." 

205 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Porter  thought- 
fully. "I've  heard  it  said." 

Miss  Barry  glanced  around  at  her  com- 
panion quickly.  "Well,  I  hope  you  did  n't 
take  any  stock  in  it,"  she  returned  sharply. 
"Lambert  Barry  had  a  backbone  of  his  own. 
I'm  surprised  at  his  own  daughter's  not 
knowing  him  well  enough  to  scout  such  a 


notion." 


"Bertram  is  very  clever.  He  had  been  with 
him  a  long  time." 

"Clever!  I  guess  he  is  clever.  I  could  just 
about  worship  that  man  for  all  he's  done," 
was  the  warm  rejoinder;  "and  if  that  cock- 
and-bull  story  was  true  about  Bertram  King 
dragging  the  bank  into  that  Antlers  thing 
that  broke  the  camel's  back,  he's  made  up 
for  it  with  pretty  near  his  life's  blood,  work- 
ing night  and  day  to  undo  the  damage." 

Mrs.  Porter's  eyes  glowed  with  interest 
and  surprise  at  such  heat  from  the  reserved 
New  England  woman. 

"You  do  feel  that  way!  I'm  so  glad. 
Then,  why  does  n't  Linda?" 

"Because  if  Mr.  King  laid  down  and  died 
it  could  n't  bring  back  her  father,"  returned 
Miss  Barry  slowly. 

206 


The  Harbor 


Mrs.  Porter  looked  away  and  shook  her 
head.  "How  dreadful  it  seems,"  she  said  in 
a  low  tone.  "Then  you  have  no  blame  for 
Bertram?" 

"Not  a  particle." 

"What  is  the  situation  now?  What  has  he 
been  able  to  do?" 

"Wonders,"  returned  Miss  Barry  senten- 
tiously.  "He  sent  me  a  letter  to  the  train. 
I  ought  to  have  given  it  to  you  as  soon  as  I 
touched  home.  I  ought  to  have  realized  that 
you  were  so  close  to  Mr.  King  that  it  would 
mean  a  lot  to  you  as  well  as  to  us.  You'll 
never  see  the  Linda  that  was  before  that 
letter  came.  It  gave  her  new  life." 

"Then  did  n't  it  make  her  feel  kindly 
toward  Bertram?"  asked  Mrs.  Porter. 

"No.  She  just  accepted  it  as  penance  and 
the  best  restitution  the  poor  fellow  could 
make  for  a  tragic  and  unpardonable  —  mind 
you,  unpardonable  mistake." 

"Forgive  us  our  debts,  as  we  forgive  our 
debtors,"  murmured  Mrs.  Porter. 

"I  know  it,"  returned  Miss  Barry;  "and 
you'll  see  when  you  read  that  letter  that  he 
has  some  forgiveness  to  do  himself.  He  never 
mentioned  Linda  in  it,  and  good  enough  for 

207 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


her.  She  had  flouted  him  and  refused  to  see 
him  for  days  before  he  rightly  sensed  how 
deep  her  feeling  was  against  him.  It  was  at 
a  business  meeting  we  had  that  she  came  out 
flat  with  her  suspicion  and  meanness.  Oh, 
it  was  perfectly  awful.  I  just  have  to  re- 
member and  remember  how  much  provocation 
she  would  have  had  if  all  she  believed  was 
true.  That  poor  boy  nearly  fainted  away  in 
his  tracks,  the  way  she  spoke  to  him." 

Mrs.  Porter  bit  her  lip.  She  could  picture 
the  scene  and  her  eyes  filled. 

"He  loved  her  so!"  she  said  softly. 

"Yes,  and  there's  that  Fred  Whitcomb, 
too:  as  nice  a  boy  as  ever  lived.  He  just 
adores  Linda;  and  it  seems  there's  lots  of 
others.  I  did  n't  believe  before  that  I  could 
ever  get  sick  of  arranging  flowers;  but  really 
they  were  a  pest.  Linda  would  n't  look  at 
one,  and  I  got  so  I  passed  them  over  to  the 
waitress.  She  fixed  them  perfectly  awful,  too. 
They  looked  like  crazy  quilts  when  she  got 
through  —  such  colors  together!  Linda  was 
a  buxom,  healthy  girl,  and  good-looking 
enough,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see 
why  she's  such  a  snare." 

"Poor  child.  She  shows  how  she  has  suf- 
208 


The  Harbor 


fered,  but  why  did  n't  it  soften  her?  How 
could  she  inflict  suffering  at  such  a  time? 
I  can  hardly  wait  to  see  that  letter,"  added 
Mrs.  Porter,  unconsciously  hurrying  her  steps. 

"  I  have  n't  got  it.  I  gave  it  to  Linda  for 
her  comfort,  and  hoping,  too,  that  she'd 
get  some  punishment  out  of  Mr.  King's  ig- 
noring her.  Never  mentioned  her  name,  you 
know." 

"And  did  n't  she  feel  it  at  all?" 

"Not  a  mite." 

"Then  I  suppose,  after  all,  she  never  did 
care  anything  for  Bertram,"  mused  Mrs. 
Porter.  "It  was  as  well,  perhaps,  for  him 
that  she  shocked  him  out  of  his  dream.  As 
well  for  him  —  not  for  her,  poor  child,  it 
was  n't  well  for  her  to  be  cruel." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  her," 
said  Miss  Barry.  "Maybe  she  was  n't  really 
responsible.  Land!  What  we  went  through! 
Well,"  she  added,  briskness  coming  into  her 
voice,  "that  chapter's  closed." 

"Let  me,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  "let  me  be 
the  one  to  ask  Linda  for  the  letter.  You 
have  been  so  tried,  Miss  Barry.  I  don't 
want  to  ask  you  to  reopen  the  sorrowful 
chapter;  but  I  long  to  see  what  Bertram  has 

209 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


to  say.  I  have  always  thought  him  an  ex- 
traordinary young  fellow  and  respected  him 
as  much  as  I  loved  him." 

"Just  so.  Just  so,"  responded  Miss  Barry 
warmly.  "All  right.  You  ask  for  the  letter. 
I  pass  my  niece  over  to  you  now." 

They  had  reached  the  porch  of  the  shin- 
gled cottage  and  in  another  minute  they 
walked  in  upon  Linda's  presentation  scene. 

Miss  Barry  was  quite  prompt  in  follow- 
ing her  maid  into  the  kitchen,  but  the  min- 
ute's delay  in  hanging  up  her  hat  and  coat 
was  sufficient  for  all  sign  of  the  candy  boxes 
to  have  disappeared.  When  she  opened  the 
door  Blanche  Aurora  was  at  the  sink  letting 
floods  of  hot  water  into  the  dishpan  and  sing- 
ing with  vigor,  "A  charge  to  keep  I  have," 
meanwhile  rattling  pans  and  china,  the 
whole  giving  an  amazing  effect  of  clatter. 

Miss  Barry  involuntarily  clapped  her 
hands  to  her  ears. 

"You  need  n't  sing,"  she  remarked  loudly. 

"All  right,"  returned  the  help,  ceasing, 
"but  you  told  me  't  was  good  for  my  lungs." 

"That's  all  very  well  when  you're  alone, 
Blanche  Aurora;  but  I'm  going  to  be  busy 
out  here  seeing  what  shape  you've  got  the 

210 


The  Harbor 


closets  into  while  I've  been  gone  and  how 
many  dishes  I've  got  left.  To-morrow  I'm 
going  to  begin  putting  up  strawberries." 

Miss  Barry  was  in  the  habit  of  preparing 
in  the  summer  time  of  peace  for  the  war  of 
winter,  when  boarding-houses  could  not  sup- 
ply her  with  home-prepared  fruit. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  living-room  the  light 
of  amusement  had  died  from  Linda's  pale 
face  and  she  sank  into  a  chintz-cushioned 
wicker  rocker.  Mrs.  Porter  took  a  neigh- 
boring chair. 

"You  had  a  good  sleep,  I  hope,  Linda." 

"Wonderful.  I  went  completely  out  of 
the  world  for  the  first  time  in  —  I  don't 
know  how  many  weeks."  The  girl  met  the 
kind  regard  fixed  upon  her.  "I  can't  get 
used,"  she  added,  "to  seeing  you  far  away 
from  your  busy  life.  It  seems  as  if  I  must 
hurry  to  say  what  I  wish  because  in  half  an 
hour  I  shall  be  turned  out  by  another 
pupil." 

"Vacation  is  astonishingly  pleasant  when 
you've  earned  it,"  replied  her  friend.  "I 
fancy  that  a  lot  of  people  who  thought  it 
would  be  great  fun  to  retire  from  business 
soon  made  the  discovery  that  when  one 

211 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


stops  working  he  stops  playing  too,  because 
vacation  has  lost  its  zest.  Familiarity  breeds 
contempt  in  lots  of  ways." 

Linda's  large  eyes  rested  upon  the  speaker, 
who  had  retained  an  orange  silk  sweater  over 
her  white  waist  and  white  corduroy  skirt. 
The  hero-worship  that  for  two  years  she  had 
laid  at  the  feet  of  this  woman  was  among 
the  enthusiasms  of  that  vital  past,  now  gone 
forever.  Once  it  would  have  meant  wild 
elation  to  claim  unlimited  companionship 
with  the  adored  one  in  this  isolated,  roman- 
tic spot.  To-day,  as  she  gazed  at  the  whole- 
some, calm  face  of  her  teacher,  it  was  that 
other  teaching  she  had  received  from  her, 
those  words  of  balm  that  had  proved  the 
first  comfort  in  her  affliction,  which  gave  her 
friend  value. 

"I  owe  you  so  much,  Mrs.  Porter,"  she 
said  suddenly,  after  a  mutual  silence,  full  to 
each  of  them. 

"I'm  glad,"  returned  the  other  as  simply. 
"My  heart  cried  out  to  help  you,  Linda." 

The  speaker  knew  that  if  the  hurt,  grop- 
ing soul  can  find  something  for  which  to  feel 
gratitude,  healing  has  begun. 

She  came  no  nearer  to  the  girl  nor  took 
212 


The  Harbor 


her  hand.  It  was  a  new  Linda,  cold,  white, 
and  undemonstrative  except  for  her  cruelty 
to  Bertram  King.  Mrs.  Porter  steadied  her 
own  thought  as  it  fled  to  him,  and  tried  to 
think  only  of  the  needy  one  before  her. 

"You  believed  in  my  father  —  believed  in 
him  from  the  first.  Bertram  says  now  that 
he  will  be  vindicated  to  all  before  very 
long;  but  I  shall  never  forget  those  who 
believed  in  him  from  the  first." 

Mrs.  Porter  listened  quietly  to  the  low, 
vibrating  voice.  She  saw  the  girl  swallow 
and  exercise  self-control. 

"Miss  Barry  tells  me  that  my  cousin 
wrote  a  letter  to  her,  telling  of  hopeful 
conditions.  She  says  that  you  have  it.  May 
I  see  it?" 

"Yes.  You  deserve  to  see  it.  It  is  in  my 
envelope  of  treasures:  your  letters."  Linda's 
heart  spoke  through  her  eyes,  then  she  arose. 

"Let  us  go  out  of  doors  and  read  it," 
said  Mrs.  Porter.  "We  waste  time  in  the 
house  on  such  a  day.  Bring  a  warm  wrap 
when  you  come  down." 

Linda  went  upstairs  slowly.    Her  friend's 
eyes  followed  her  inelastic,  slow  movements. 
Could  this  be  Linda  Barry! 
213 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


She  returned  wearing  a  white  sweater  and 
Mrs.  Porter  pinned  a  white  corduroy  hat  on 
the  dark  head  and  flung  a  polo  coat  over 
her  own  arm.  She  also  took  a  cushion  from 
the  hammock  as  they  passed. 

"We  won't  sit  on  the  piazza  this  morn- 
ing," she  said.  "I  have  a  surprise  for  you." 

Leading  the  way  around  the  corner  of  the 
house,  the  two  walked  away  from  the  blue 
breakers,  across  a  wide,  grassy  field. 

"Your  father  did  a  fine  thing  in  buying 
so  much  ground  for  his  sister,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter.  "She  says  when  he  built  the  house 
he  was  afraid  she  would  be  lonely  and  he 
planned  to  build  other  attractive  cottages 
through  here,  but  she  told  him  she  did  n't 
want  any  one  near  enough  to  shoot.  She 
says  he  laughed  and  gave  her  the  deed  to  all 
this  land  and  told  her  to  go  ahead  and  suit 
herself.  Do  you  see  that  mowing  machine 
at  work?  That  is  Cap'n  Jerry,  who  brought 
your  trunk.  See  him  mounted  on  his  little 
throne  and  driving  Molly  —  that  wonderful 
horse  that  he  says  'ain't  afraid  o'  no  nameable 
thing.'  He  is  opposed  on  principle  to  doing 
anything  'sudden,'  so  he  has  taken  his  time 
to  get  at  the  mowing;  but  how  sweet  it  will 
214 


The  Harbor 


smell  here  tomorrow!  Passengers  will  have 
to  get  over  from  the  train  the  best  way  they 
can  to-day.  Cap'n  Jerry  says,  very  reason- 
ably, that  he  can't  be  'in  two  places  to  once,' 
and  he's  just  a  little  bit  afraid  of  your  Aunt 
Belinda.  He  won't  put  off  her  work  too 
long." 

Linda's  grave  lips  were  parted  as  she 
looked  across  the  field  toward  the  machine 
where  Captain  Jerry  was  cheering  Molly  on 
and  calming  her  disgust  when  the  clipping 
knife  encountered  a  stone,  balking  her  ef- 
forts. 

"He  is  the  one  who  went  to  school  with 
my  father?" 

"They  all  did.  You'll  meet  others." 
They  crossed  the  field,  then  Mrs.  Porter 
turned  inland.  "Now,  down  this  path, 
Linda.  See,  it  is  a  path.  I  made  it  myself. 
Partly  by  constant  use,  partly  with  a  sickle. 
I  wish  Miss  Barry  would  sell  me  this  spot. 
I  don't  believe  she  could  shoot  as  far  as  this, 
do  you?  And  —  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Mrs.  Porter  paused  and  regarded  her  com- 
panion in  triumph.  She  had  led  her  around  a 
clump  of  white  birches,  the  advance  guard 
of  a  forest  of  pine  and  balsam  which  held 

215 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


back  the  prevailing  south  wind.  The  zephyrs, 
forcing  their  way  through,  here  and  there, 
brought  delicious  odors  of  the  firs.  The 
ocean  was  sufficiently  distant  for  its  roar  to 
be  muffled,  and  an  enchanting  spring  bubbled 
up  in  a  natural  rock  pool,  falling  like  liquid 
crystal  over  the  granite  barrier,  and  mean- 
dering away  toward  the  steep  bluff  where  it 
fell  in  a  narrow  rivulet  down  to  the  sea. 
The  brooklet  had  worn  a  rut  for  itself  and 
was  bordered  by  greener  grass  and  larger 
flowers  than  dotted  the  surrounding  field. 
It  made  a  gurgling  sound,  dear  to  its  dis- 
coverer, and  one  of  the  gray,  slanting  rocks 
of  a  New  England  pasture  rose  in  the  bower 
of  the  birches,  rising  to  a  sufficient  height  to 
serve  as  a  comfortable  back  for  two  people 
sitting  side  by  side  on  the  green  couch, 
secure  from  the  wind. 

"See  what  a  proof  of  my  affection,"  said 
Mrs.  Porter,  "that  I  bring  you  here.  I 
sneak  away  —  I  steal  away!  Not  even 
Blanche  Aurora  knows  where  I  am  when  I 
come  here." 

"I  should  incline  to  doubt  that,"  re- 
turned Linda. 

Mrs.  Porter  laughed.  "Those  round  eyes 
216 


The  Harbor 


do  see  about  all  that's  going  on,  I  admit;  but 
I  like  to  believe  in  my  own  cleverness  suf- 
ficiently to  feel  that  I  have  guarded  this." 

The  speaker  proceeded  to  spread  the  polo 
coat  in  front  of  the  rock.  "Sit  down,"  she 
said,  and  when  Linda  obeyed  she  fitted  the 
pillow  in  behind  her  back. 

"No,  indeed,"  protested  Linda.  "Blanche 
Aurora  cried  aloud  that  I  was  sick  and  deli- 
cate, but  it's  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  must 
take  the  pillow  yourself." 

"Oh,  to  please  me,"  urged  Mrs.  Porter. 
"I  never  bring  a  pillow.  This  sun-warmed 
rock  just  fits  my  back.  We  have  n't  tried  it 
on  yours  yet,  and  I  wanted  your  first  experi- 
ence to  be  positively  sybaritic." 

"My  first,"  returned  Linda;  "then  you  do 
intend  to  let  me  come  again?" 

"Indeed,  I  do,"  was  the  cheery  reply.  "I 
don't  know  a  better  object  lesson  in  the 
fact  that  nothing  is  too  good  to  be  true." 


217 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    VOICE    OF   TRUTH 

"AND  I,"  returned  Linda,  clasping  her  hands 
behind  her  head  as  she  leaned  back  beside 
her  friend,  "I  have  felt  that  nothing  was  too 
bad  to  be  true." 

Mrs.  Porter  did  not  speak;  and  after  a 
short  silence,  the  girl  continued:  — 

"In  the  happy  days,  I  tore  off  a  leaf  from 
your  Bible  calendar,  and  one  morning,  when 
everything  was  black  and  despairing,  I  found 
it  in  my  bag.  It  read,  'Instead  of  the  thorn 
shall  come  up  the  fir  tree,  and  instead  of  the 
brier  shall  come  up  the  myrtle  tree/  I  sup- 
pose I  was  like  the  drowning  man,  and  this 
promise,  impersonal  and  silent,  was  a  straw  to 
be  clung  to  blindly.  At  any  rate,  I  could  n't 
throw  it  away;  and  it  persisted  in  ringing 
through  my  confused  head.  Soon  your  letter 
came.  Oh,  Mrs.  Porter  — "  Linda  choked 
and  ceased. 

Her  companion   laid  a    comforting   hand 
upon  her  for  a  moment  and  withdrew  it. 
218 


The  Voice  of  Truth 


"You  will  never  know  what  you  did  for 
me,"  went  on  the  girl  presently:  "do  you 
know  what  it  means  to  a  despairing  one  to 
be  given  a  gleam  of  hope  ?  You  can't,  unless 
you  know  it  by  experience." 

"I  know  it  by  experience,"  returned  Mrs. 
Porter  quietly. 

Her  companion  glanced  around  at  the  calm 
face  for  a  fleeting  instant.  Could  it  be  pos- 
sible that  such  poise  would  ever  be  won  for 
herself  ? 

"It  was  a  willingness  to  listen  to  you,  and 
the  hope  that  I  could  believe  you,  that  brought 
me,  shrinking  and  shuddering  as  I  was,  out  of 
my  home  and  into  the  train  and  here.  Then, 
on  the  train,  came  this  letter  that  Aunt  Be- 
linda told  you  about.  It  brought  me  more 
of  peace  and  hope  than  I  had  dreamed  of. 
I  have  dared  to  think  since  then.  Here  it  is." 

The  speaker  passed  to  her  companion  the 
envelope  she  had  been  holding  tightly. 

Mrs.  Porter  accepted  it  in  silence  and  took 
out  the  letter.  As  she  read,  a  deeper  color 
mounted  to  her  cheeks,  but  Linda  did  not 
observe  this.  She  had  dropped  her  hands 
in  her  lap  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
clear-cut  horizon  line. 

219 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Dear  Bertram!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Porter 
as  she  finished.  Then  she  read  the  letter 
again.  Finally,  she  folded  the  sheet,  put  it  in 
its  envelope  and  handed  it  back  to  Linda. 
Her  face  wore  the  radiance  for  which  her 
pupils  were  wont  to  watch  as  the  highest 
reward  for  achievement. 

"Splendid,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  why  news 
so  vital  should  have  been  addressed  to  Miss 
Barry  instead  of  to  you." 

Linda's  grave  gaze  met  hers. 

"I  don't  like  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Porter,"  she 
answered. 

"You  need  n't  fear,  dear  child." 

"Oh,  I  can't  go  into  it  again,  I  can't!" 
exclaimed  Linda,  suddenly  averting  her  head. 

"As  you  please,  dear.  I  don't  want  to 
force  you;  but  I  know  so  well  that  what  you 
quoted  a  few  minutes  ago  is  as  true  as  that 
two  and  two  make  four.  Instead  of  the  thorn 
will  come  up  the  fir  tree,  as  soon  as  you  cease 
to  give  the  thorn  nourishment." 

"I  give  it  nourishment?"  Linda's  brow 
contracted.  "Do  you  mean  that  I  nurse 
grief?  You're  mistaken." 

"No,  I  did  n't  mean  that.  I  love  Bertram, 
and  something  very  wrong  must  have  oc- 
220 


The  Voice  of  Truth 


curred  to  cause  him  not  to  mention  you  in 
that  letter.  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  I  want 
for  you  just  what  your  father  is  getting  now: 
greater  knowledge  of  God  and  His  love  and 
wisdom  and  guidance.  You  see  that  guid- 
ance is  the  most  everyday  thing  in  the  world : 
the  closest;  not  anything  far  away  or  mys- 
terious. If  it  is  your  fault  that  Bertram 
ignores  you  in  this  —  " 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  interrupted  Linda.  "It  is 
not  my  fault.  It  is  poor  Bertram  who  brought 
us  all  to  this.  I  appreciate  more  every  time  I 
read  that  letter  —  and  I  know  it  by  heart  — 
how  valiantly  he  has  worked  to  undo  the  mis- 
chief. At  first  I  did  n't  pity  him  in  the  least, 
because  the  crime  of  getting  my  father  into 
all  that  trouble  overwhelmed  my  thoughts  at 
every  turn;  but,  of  course,  I  can  see  now  that 
it  has  been  a  hard  experience  for  Bertram  as 
well." 

Linda  ceased,  catching  her  lower  lip  be- 
tween her  teeth. 

"I  know  something  of  what  you  refer  to," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Porter.  "I  know  Bertram's 
reputation  for  influence  in  Barry  &  Co." 

"And  you  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  said 
Linda  hurriedly,  "  and  Bertram  is  your  cousin, 

221 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


and,  as  you  say,  you  love  him,  I  —  I  can't 
bear  to  discuss  him  with  you." 

"But  I  can  bear  it,  Linda,  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  ask  you  one  question.  Do  you  believe 
that  Bertram  intended  any  harm  to  your 
father?" 

"No,"  came  the  quick  answer;  "but  he  is 
so  conceited  and  so  opinionated  —  " 

"If  you  believe  him  innocent  of  wrong  in- 
tention, should  you  become  his  enemy  —  " 

Linda's  pale  cheeks  flushed  and  she 
straightened  up. 

"When  a  person  strikes  you  a  murderous 
blow,  Mrs.  Porter,  can  you,  before  recover- 
ing breath,  care  much  whether  it  was  acci- 
dental or  intentional?" 

"No!  but  after  recovering  breath,  you  can. 
What  do  you  believe  your  father  would  say 
to  your  treatment  of  Bertram  ? " 

Linda  glanced  around  at  her  companion 
quickly.  "Aunt  Belinda  has  been  talking  to 
you,"  she  said. 

"She  wrote  me  something  of  it  before  she 
came  home.  This  letter  that  I  have  just  read 
tells  me  most,  however.  You  were  very  dear 
to  Bertram,  Linda.  This  double  and  treble 
sorrow  of  his  appalls  me."  Linda  saw  her 

222 


The  Voice  of  Truth 


companion's  eyes  fill.  "You  are  right," 
added  Mrs.  Porter,  not  very  steadily,  "we 
would  better  not  talk  about  it  at  present. 
Better  thoughts  will  come  now  that,  as  you 
say,  the  clouds  have  cleared  sufficiently  for 
you  to  think." 

They  both  leaned  back  against  the  rock  for 
a  silent  minute  and  Linda  saw  her  friend 
press  her  handkerchief  to  those  brimming 
eyes.  Tears  and  Mrs.  Porter!  Impossible 
connection  of  thought. 

"I  would  like  you  to  tell  me  one  thing, 
Mrs.  Porter,"  she  said.  "Are  you  pitying 
Bertram,  or  me?" 

The  older  woman  turned  to  her  with  a 
sudden  flashing  smile. 

"I  am  not  going  to  pity  the  devil  in  any 
form,"  she  returned,  "because  there  ain't 
no  sech  animal.  All  this  discord  is  no  part  of 
the  reality  of  things." 

Linda  frowned  in  her  earnestness  and 
grasped  her  friend's  arm. 

"I  know  all  that  you  have  written  me  by 
heart  too.  I'm  trying  to  believe  in  God;  but 
even  if  I  do,  that  stupendous  fact  arises  — 
He  took  my  father  away  from  me." 

"No,  little  Linda"  —  Mrs.  Porter  shook 
223 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


her  head  slowly.  "This  world  is  very  full  of 
awful  happenings  at  the  present  day.  Man- 
kind is  confronted  with  the  choice  between  a 
God  of  Love  or  none  at  all.  Love  does  n't 
send  war  and  unspeakable  suffering,  yet  such 
is  existing  now  in  this  mortal  life  of  ours. 
Are  n't  we  reduced  to  finding  some  philosophy 
which  will  give  us  an  anchor?  The  arbitrary 
will  of  a  God  of  war  is  no  anchor  of  hope.  It 
would  be  a  cause  for  apprehension  —  even 
terror  —  to  believe  in  such  a  power.  To 
come  to  your  own  individual  loss,  your  father 
has  gone  from  your  sight  like  thousands  of 
other  girls'  fathers,  dead  on  battle-fields;  but 
God,  who  created  man  in  His  image  and  like- 
ness, knows  nothing  but  the  unbroken  cur- 
rent of  life." 

"Then,  why  —  where  do  all  these  awful 
things  come  from?  What  is  the  source?" 

Mrs.  Porter  smiled.  "Where  does  dark- 
ness come  from  ?  Did  you  ever  think  of  try- 
ing to  trace  darkness  to  its  source?  Every 
minute  of  the  day  we  are  called  upon  to  divide 
between  reality  and  unreality." 

Silence  fell  between  the  two  friends  in  the 
wide  sweep  of  peace  that  surrounded  them. 
The  heaped  foam  of  cloudlets  sailed  across 

224 


The  Voice  of  Truth 


the  blue  and  a  crow  cawed  in  the  neighboring 
wood. 

"We  had  such  an  amusing  visit  this  morn- 
ing, Miss  Barry  and  I,"  said  Mrs.  Porter  at 
last.  "One  of  the  neighbors  is  a  character." 

"I  heard  that  you  went  to  see  her 
hens." 

"Yes.  Oh,  it  is  funny  to  see  your  aunt 
brought  up  against  the  kind  of  person  who 
lives  in  a  lax,  slipshod  sort  of  way." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  other;  "Aunt  Belinda 
has  no  half-tones.  Everything  with  her  is 
either  jet-black  or  snow-white;  and  if  there  is 
anything  she  can't  bear  it  is  a  thing  she 
does  n't  like." 

Mrs.  Porter  smiled  and  sighed.  "That  is 
true;  and  poor  Luella  Benslow  is  such  a  mix- 
ture of  airy  affectation  and  slack  housekeep- 
ing that  Miss  Barry  is  obviously  on  the  eve 
of  explosion  all  the  time  they  are  together. 
Her  hens  are  her  fad,  and  she  has  hot-water 
bags  for  them,  Linda.  Can  you  believe  it! 
She  puts  them  in  the  nests  during  a  cold 
snap."  Mrs.  Porter's  laugh  rang  out  as 
merrily  as  though  sorrow  had  never  entered 
the  world. 

Linda  smiled.  "Blanche  Aurora  told  me 
225 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


so.  It  seems  that  the  ingenious  lady  belongs 
to  a  very  talented  family." 

"  Really  ?     In  what  way  ? " 

"You  must  get  Blanche  Aurora  to  tell 
you  that.  I  could  n't  do  the  subject  justice." 

"Well,  I  'm  afraid  it  is  n't  a  talent  for  cook- 
ing. Luella  has  a  couple  of  boarders;  a  Mrs. 
Lindsay  and  her  daughter  from  New  York. 
Fortunately,  they  have  a  sense  of  humor. 
It's  quite  necessary  that  Luella's  boarders 
should  have  a  sense  of  humor.  Mrs.  Lindsay 
walked  with  us  to  the  gate  when  we  came 
away  and  told  us  some  of  their  trials ;  but  she 
is  one  of  those  efficient  women  who  are  capa- 
ble of  managing,  and  she  and  her  daughter 
have  funny  times.  It  seems  that  Miss  Lind- 
say has  just  been  enjoying  her  first  winter  in 
society  and  has  overdone  it  so  greatly  that 
the  doctor  ordered  a  dry-land  sea  voyage, 
like  this,  in  an  uninhabited  spot  like  this,  and 
told  her  to  live  the  life  of  a  vegetable.  Mrs. 
Lindsay  is  one  of  these  thin,  snappy  women, 
strung  on  wires,  and  I  judge  nervous  to  a 
degree.  She  has  a  busy  time  trying  to  domi- 
nate the  circumstances.  She  says  if  they  only 
were  vegetables  and  did  n't  have  to  eat,  or  to 
care  whether  their  rooms  were  swept,  it 

226 


The  Voice  of  Truth 


would  all  be  quite  simple.  The  daughter  is 
rather  skin-and-bone-y  too;  but  she's  the 
sort  who  would  look  smart  even  in  bed.  You 
can  see  that  she  is  a  New  Yorker  of  the  New 
Yorkers." 

"Oh,  why  did  you  visit  them,  dear  Mrs. 
Porter!  You  want  to  get  away  from  people 
too,  don't  you?" 

"No  danger,  I  fancy,  of  their  troubling  us. 
Vegetables  don't  return  calls.  Mrs.  Lindsay 
was  very  much  interested,  though,  in  know- 
ing that  you  were  here.  She  and  her  husband 
dined  with  your  father  last  June,  and  they 
are  related  distantly  to  that  friend  of  yours 
—  Mr.  Whitcomb." 

"Fred?" 

"Yes;  Mrs.  Lindsay  said  he  had  told  them 
a  great  deal  about  you.  Is  n't  the  world 
small!" 

"Too  small,"  sighed  Linda.  "I  hope 
they'll  not  try  to  see  me." 

"Miss  Lindsay  was  quite  lackadaisical  and 
seemed  to  have  no  interest  beyond  her  ham- 
mock; and  I  can  easily  defend  you  from  the 
mother,"  said  Mrs.  Porter  reassuringly. 

That  evening  Linda  received  a  letter  from 
her  sister. 

227 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Dear,  dear  Linda  (it  began)  — 

I  can  hardly  wait  for  the  word  that  will  tell 
us  that  you  are  safely  at  your  journey's  end. 
You  had  such  a  hot  trip;  I  hope  you  bore  it 
well.  I'm  sure  the  good  news  Bertram  sent 
by  letter  helped  wonderfully.  If  Bertram 
has  any  sin  of  commission  on  his  conscience, 
he  has  done  all  he  could  to  make  up  for  it. 
He  looks  so  badly.  I  wonder,  at  times,  if  he 
worries  at  night  over  misleading  Papa  in- 
stead of  sleeping;  but  Henry  says  he  has  had 
a  lot  to  do  nights,  beside  worrying  or  sleep- 
ing either.  Henry  thinks  Bertram  is  one  in 
a  thousand,  even  if  he  has  made  mistakes. 
He  came  to  us  the  evening  of  the  day  you 
went  away  —  it's  such  a  blessed  thing  Henry 
was  n't  an  investor  in  the  Antlers,  because  it 
does  away  with  embarrassment  —  and  he 
told  us  what  he  has  accomplished  for  Barry 
&  Co.  He  did  n't  express  any  regrets,  — 
sometimes  I  think  it's  strange  that  he  never 
does,  —  but  he  just  told  us,  in  a  rather  light 
way,  the  arrangements  he  has  made  and  I 
assure  you  Henry  shook  hands  with  him 
hard.  I  could  see  that  if  he  had  been  a  girl 
he  would  have  hugged  him.  So  I  hope  that 
as  you  grow  stronger  you  can  see  things  more 
228 


The  Voice  of  Truth 


temperately  and  come  to  the  place  where 
you  can  write  a  letter  of  acknowledgment  to 
Bertram.  He  deserves  it,  Linda;  he  really 
does.  I  referred  to  you  once  in  our  talk,  but 
he  made  no  response  and  I  could  feel  my  very 
ears  burning.  He  knew,  and  I  knew,  that 
we  were  both  thinking  of  that  moment  in 
the  library  when  you  rose  and  left  us.  You 
must  n't  think  I  blame  you  too  much,  dear, 
but  remember,  to  err  is  human  —  to  forgive, 
divine,  and  Bertram  was  young  for  such 
heavy  responsibilities.  If  he  made  mistakes 
which  in  any  way  hastened  dear  Papa's  end, 
can't  you  see  he  will  carry  the  scars  forever? 
We  don't  need  to  add  to  his  punishment. 

Harry  is  standing  by  me,  and  ^  ^  ^ 
x-/  there,  he  made  those  wiggles.  He  says 
they  are  his  love.  He  has  grown  a  lot  since 
you  saw  him,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Linda  could  not  keep  her  mind  on  Harry. 
She  was  standing  in  the  living-room  reading 
her  letter  by  the  twilight,  and  she  looked  up 
now  far  across  the  ocean.  The  darkness  fell 
while  she  stood  there  and  a  great  planet 
began  to  ascend  the  sky.  Its  brilliancy  sent 
a  narrow  path  across  the  sea.  The  isolation 
229 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


and  peace  were  healing.  A  great  thankfulness 
filled  the  girl  that  she  was  far  from  those 
scenes  called  up  by  her  sister's  letter.  She 
wished  fervently  that  she  need  never  return 
to  them.  Here  was  peace:  consolation:  relief. 


230 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    RAINBOW 

BERTRAM  KING,  in  all  the  years  she  had 
known  him,  had  not  dwelt  in  Linda's  mind 
so  often  as  in  these  days.  She  felt  aggrieved 
to  have  the  thought  of  him  thrust  upon  her 
as  it  had  been  by  her  aunt  and  Mrs.  Porter 
and  now  by  Harriet. 

It  had  been  a  settled  fact  in  her  thought 
that  she  and  Bertram  could  never  again  be 
friends.  The  mental  picture  of  his  haggard 
face  as  he  made  love  to  her  on  a  June  evening, 
again  as  he  bade  her  good-bye  before  the 
University  Club,  and  later,  the  dazed  look 
in  his  eyes  under  her  accusation  in  the  li- 
brary —  all  these  pictures  of  him  were  a  gal- 
lery apart  from  the  remembrance  of  the  suc- 
cessful man  whose  unspoken  criticism  had  so 
often  piqued  her. 

She  thought  also  of  that  Sunday  afternoon 
at  Harriet's  when  he  had  laid  his  teasing  ad- 
miration at  her  feet.  She  had  admired  him 
too,  reluctant  as  was  her  approval.  She 
231 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


exulted  in  achievement,  and  Bertram  King 
stood  high  among  young  Chicago  men  who 
had  achieved.  Considerable  jealousy  had 
entered  into  her  feeling  for  him.  The  words, 
"Bertram  thinks,"  or  "Bertram  wishes," 
were  often  on  her  father's  lips,  and  occasion- 
ally she  had  felt  that  she  herself  was  gently 
set  aside  in  deference  to  some  plan  of  Bert- 
ram's. An  unwilling  secret  acknowledgment 
of  his  superiority  had  fled  in  the  cataclysm, 
of  her  wild  resentment  and  despair;  and  now 
that  she  was  made  to  feel  that  she  stood  alone 
in  her  condemnation,  and  was  silently  con- 
demned for  it  by  those  who  loved  her,  Bert- 
ram's image  persistently  arose  as  something 
to  be  reckoned  with. 

Fairness  had  been  the  characteristic  upon 
which,  in  school,  Linda  had  greatly  prided 
herself:  fairness  which  excluded  preferences. 
She  had  so  impressed  her  impersonality  upon 
her  classmates  that  she  had  won  a  high  rep- 
utation as  social  umpire  and  was  often  called 
upon  to  decide  vexed  questions.  Now,  there- 
fore, she  looked  Bertram  King's  insistent 
image  straight  in  the  tired  eyes,  with  her 
grave,  severe  estimate,  and  sustained  no 
pricks  of  conscience.  Time,  the  wondrous 
232 


The  Rainbow 


healer,  brought  her,  however,  as  weeks  went 
on,  to  raise  him  from  the  status  of  a  mere 
criminal  to  the  rank  of  a  fellow  sufferer.  All 
the  same,  they  could  never  again  be  friends. 
The  thought  of  her  wronged  father,  her  be- 
loved, must  rise  between  them  to  the  end  of 
their  lives.  It  went  without  saying  that  the 
young  man  must  suffer,  even  though  his  pride 
would  not  permit  him  to  confess  his  error. 
He  was  not  a  callous  person.  Doubtless  his 
punishment  had  been  heavy.  Thus  her 
thoughts  would  run  on  in  the  hours  that  she 
spent  alone. 

She  was  granted  the  boon  of  utter  freedom. 
Mrs.  Lindsay  and  her  daughter  Madge  had 
essayed  to  be  neighborly,  but  Mrs.  Porter 
acted  as  an  effective  buffer  between  Linda  and 
all  social  assaults,  and  as  the  weeks  went  by, 
slowly  they  brought  the  girl  back  from  mor- 
bid dwelling  on  a  dead  past  to  recognition 
of  the  living  present.  She  remained  subdued 
and  quiet,  but  elasticity  was  returning  to  her 
mind  and  body. 

Miss  Barry,  busy  about  her  home  duties, 
left  her  niece,  with  lessening  anxiety,  to  her 
own  devices,  and  Mrs.  Porter  was  careful  to 
allow  Linda  to  make  every  advance;  but  the 

233 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


steady  shining  of  the  older  woman's  happy 
personality  was  a  magnet  toward  which  the 
girl  was  constantly  attracted  and  they  were 
often  together. 

Blanche  Aurora  was  also  a  little  uncon- 
scious missionary.  There  was  something 
about  her  youth,  her  intrepid  spirit,  stern 
practicality,  and  scanty  wardrobe  which 
continually  touched  Linda's  sense  of  humor 
and  compassion. 

One  day  she  sent  for  the  child  to  come  up 
to  her  room.  Blanche  Aurora  was  always 
glad  when  duty  sent  her  to  sweep  and  dust 
this  apartment.  The  hint  of  violets  in  the 
air,  the  dainty  toilet  articles  on  the  dresser, 
the  filmy  lingerie,  which  she  put  in  place 
caressingly  with  her  tanned  hands,  all  be- 
spoke the  world  of  which  she  had  read.  She 
had  adored  Linda  from  the  moment  when 
unlimited  chocolates  had  been  pressed  upon 
her  acceptance,  but  never  before  had  the 
guest  sent  for  her  to  come  to  her  room. 

As  she  ascended  the  stairs,  Miss  Barry's 
"help"  swiftly  reviewed  her  own  sins  of 
commission,  but  decided  that  neglect  of  any 
duty  toward  Linda  had  not  been  among 
them.  Indeed,  her  mistress  often  repri- 
234 


The  Rainbow 


manded  her  for  lingering  over  her  duties 
above  stairs  where  perhaps  the  small  cham- 
bermaid was  hanging  hypnotized  over  a 
wrist-watch  with  tiny  sparkles  that  caught 
the  light,  or  endeavoring  to  decipher  the 
monogram  on  a  handbag,  or  examining  some 
other  object  in  the  fascinating  room  from 
which  her  round  orbs  could  scarcely  detach 
themselves. 

To-day  as  she  entered,  Linda  in  her  black 
gown  was  sitting  by  her  charming  window, 
reading. 

She  looked  up  as  Blanche  Aurora,  con- 
science-free, and  expressionless  as  ever  of 
countenance,  stepped  inside  and  stood  wait- 
ing. 

The  faded  gingham  was  getting  more  out- 
grown and  hueless  every  day.  Linda  won- 
dered that  her  aunt  never  seemed  to  observe 
or  care  about  the  child's  clean  forlornness. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  the  "help" 
bluntly. 

Harriet  Radcliffe,  at  this  moment  rowing 
her  small  son  around  a  Wisconsin  lake,  would 
have  enjoyed  seeing  her  sister's  eyes  sud- 
denly sparkle  and  match  the  little  laugh  that 
fell  from  her  lips. 

235 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"You  should  say,"  she  remarked  to  the 
small  maid,  all  wrists  and  with  her  thin  legs 
looking  long  above  the  sneakers  she  wore,  — 
"you  should  say,  'Did  you  call  me,  Miss 
Linda?'" 

"Well,  you  did,  didn't  you?"  returned 
Blanche  Aurora. 

Linda  regarded  her  for  a  silent  moment, 
appreciatively. 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry?"  she  asked  then. 

"If  I  was  n't  I'd  get  fired,"  returned  the 
"help"  promptly. 

Linda  laughed  again.  "I  do  really  believe 
you  exaggerate,"  she  returned.  "I'm  sure 
Aunt  Belinda  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you." 

"She  knows  I'm  the  only  kind  of  a  girl 
she  can  keep,"  said  Blanche  Aurora  coolly, 
"Grown-up  ones  won't  stand  it." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'it,'  you  naughty 
child?"  asked  Linda,  her  eyes  laughing 
toward  the  fishhook  braids  and  the  freckles. 
"Aunt  Belinda  is  a  very  kind  woman." 

"Oh,  yes,  if  you  was  sick  she'd  call  the 
doctor,  but  even  if  you  was  sick  you'd  have 
to  hang  each  rag  on  its  own  separate  hook 
and  let  her  smell  o'  the  fish-pans  after  you  'd 
scrubbed  'em." 

236 


The  Rainbow 


"It's  nice  to  be  particular,"  returned 
Linda,  laughing  again. 

"Huh!"  vouchsafed  Blanche  Aurora;  but 
her  eyes,  roving  around  the  magic  room,  had 
seen  something  unusual. 

"Good,"  she  thought.  "She's  goin'  out  o' 
mournin'.  I  '11  bet  she  looks  pretty  in  them." 
Her  round  gaze  cleaving  to  the  bed  saw 
three  gowns  lying  there;  one  of  blue,  one  of 
pink,  and  a  tailored  skirt  and  coat  of  a  small 
black-and-white  check. 

"Do  you  like  those  dresses?"  asked  Linda, 
following  her  regard. 

"Yes,  they're  real  sightly." 

"Come  here,  Blanche  Aurora." 

The  child  advanced  slowly  until  she  stood 
beside  the  black-clothed  figure.  Linda  indi- 
cated her  father's  photograph  in  its  silver 
frame  on  a  neighboring  stand.  Before  it 
stood  a  single  wild  rose  in  a  small  glass:  a 
wild  rose  of  the  sea :  deep  in  color  and  twice 
the  size  of  its  inland  sisters. 

Linda  took  one  of  the  child's  hard  tanned 
hands  in  her  satin-smooth  one,  and  Blanche 
Aurora  started  and  held  her  own  imprisoned 
hand  stiff  and  straight. 

"Every  morning  when  I  come  upstairs  I 

237 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


find  a  fresh  rose  like  that  in  front  of  my 
father's  picture.  At  first  I  could  n't  speak  of 
it."  Silence.  "There  are  some  things  too 
precious  to  speak  of.  At  last  one  day  I 
thanked  Mrs.  Porter  for  the  lovely  thought. 
She  said  it  was  a  lovely  thought,  but  not 
hers.  Then  I  wondered  if  Aunt  Belinda 
could  possibly  —  but  one  day  I  met  you 
as  you  were  coming  downstairs."  Silence. 
"Blanche  Aurora"  —  Linda's  voice  stopped 
again. 

Had  Blanche  Aurora  been  accused  of  high- 
way robbery  she  could  not  look  more  guilty. 
Not  one  freckle  was  discernible  in  the  sea  of 
red;  but  her  unwinking  stare  was  fixed  on 
the  window. 

Linda  placed  her  other  hand  over  the  one 
she  held. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  added. 

"You  gave  me  the  candy,"  blurted  out 
Blanche  Aurora.  "I  could  n't  think  of  any- 
thing else  to  do.  My  Pa's  dead,  too.  He 
drinked,  though,"  she  added  in  a  tone  which 
seemed  to  suggest  no  flowers. 

Linda  squeezed  the  hard  little  hand  and 
released  it,  to  its  owner's  relief. 

"Your  mother  has  so  many  children,  and 
238 


The  Rainbow 


so  little  time  to  sew.  Have  you  a  suit  at 
home,  Blanche  Aurora?" 

"What  do  you  mean  —  a  suit?" 

"A  coat  and  skirt  alike." 

"Not  alike.  I've  got  a  brown  skirt  that 
was  Ma's  and  a  jacket  I  wear  to  church 
when  it's  cold.  'T  ain't  cold  now,  though. 
I  wear  a  white  waist  on  Sunday." 

No  suspicion  of  Linda's  intentions  en- 
lightened her. 

The  girl  arose  and  walked  over  to  the  bed 
and  the  blue  eyes  followed  her. 

"I  sent  to  Chicago  for  these  dresses  of 


mine." 


"I  seen  the  big  box  come  yesterday,"  re- 
turned the  other,  gravitating  toward  the  bed, 
and  gloating  over  the  color  of  the  fine  fabrics. 

"Yes,  I  thought  perhaps  I  could  fix  some 
of  my  things  for  you." 

"What  things  ? "  returned  Blanche  Aurora 
mechanically. 

"These,"  indicating  the  bed. 

Blanche  Aurora  gasped. 

"For  me!"  she  cried,  the  loudness  of  her 
usual  tones  restored,  with  a  crack  of  excite- 
ment added.  "They  ain't  serviceable  nor 
durable." 

239 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Linda  bit  her  lip.  "This  one  is,"  she  said, 
picking  up  the  black-and-white  checked 
skirt. 

Blanche  Aurora  handled  it  reverently. 
"Why,  Miss  Linda,"  she  said  in  the  same 
high  key,  "how  can  you  give  away  —  " 

"You'd  better  ask  how  can  I  fix  them  for 
you.  I'm  such  an  ignoramus,  and  yet  I'm 
just  conceited  enough  to  try.  Aunt  Belinda 
has  a  machine." 

"Oh,  yes,"  —  eagerly,  —  "she's  got  a  real 
good  one.  I  can  run  it,  too,  if  you  want  me 
to,  and  she  can  spare  me." 

"All  right,  child."  Linda  patted  the  bony 
shoulder.  "Run  along  now."  Her  eyes  had 
a  humorous  light  as  she  observed  the  string 
woven  tightly  in  the  tortured  red  braids. 
"I'll  have  to  do  some  ripping  to  these  dresses 
first,  and  then  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Porter  will 
help  me,  though  probably  she  does  n't  know 
much  more  than  I  do." 

The  child's  reluctant  feet  drew  slowly  away 
from  the  bed,  but  not  before  she  had  laid  her 
hand  lovingly  on  the  pink  and  blue  gowns. 

"Miss  Linda,"  she  said,  looking  beatifically 
at  her  benefactress,  "I  used  to  think  that 
more  than  anything  in  this  whole  world  I'd 

240 


The  Rainbow 


rather  have  that  teeny  clock  o'  yourn  that 
you  punch  and  it  tells  you  jest  what  time 
it  is;  but  now  I  don't  even  want  that!" 

Without  another  word  she  walked  on 
clouds  out  of  the  room,  and  Linda  went  up  to 
her  father's  picture,  and  lifting  it,  pressed 
her  cheek  against  the  cool  glass. 

"' Instead  of  the  thorn,'"  she  murmured. 

Blanche  Aurora  tripped  downstairs,  the 
red  still  obliterating  the  freckles  on  her 
cheeks.  She  was  too  absorbed  in  her  day- 
dream to  observe  her  usual  caution  in  open- 
ing the  swing  door,  and  simultaneously  with 
her  energetic  shove  a  cry  sounded  from  Miss 
Barry  accompanied  by  a  clattering  of  glass 
on  tin. 

"Blanche  Aurora,  will  you  ever  remember 
to  come  through  that  door  carefully?  You 
knocked  my  arm  and  I  nearly  spilled  all  this 
jelly." 

Miss  Barry  glared  at  the  help  as  she  spoke. 
She  had  just  sealed  a  trayful  of  glasses  and 
was  about  to  deposit  them  on  a  shelf  near  the 
swing  door. 

"I'm  glad  —  I  mean  I'm  sorry!"  said  the 
culprit,  her  eyes  still  looking  far  away. 

"Well,"  snapped  Miss  Barry,  her  elbow 
241 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


still  smarting,  "it  would  be  well  for  you  to 
be  certain  which.  I  was  going  to  give  you  a 
glass  of  this  jelly  to  take  home  to  your  mother, 
but  now  I  think  I  ought  to  punish  you." 

"Yes'm,"  replied  Blanche  Aurora,  gliding 
through  the  pantry  into  the  kitchen. 

Her  employer  caught  her  expression  as  she 
passed. 

"Come  here,"  she  said  sharply,  and  the 
little  maid  obeyed. 

"Help  me  set  these  glasses  on  the  shelf. 
Don't  they  look  good?" 

"Yes'm.  —  Real  pink,  some  of  'em." 

"Are  n't  you  sorry  I  can't  give  you 
one?" 

"No'm.     Yes'm.     I'm  try  in' to  be." 

"Let  them  alone!  I  never  knew  you  so 
awkward.  You'll  break  one  yet,"  —  as  the 
glasses  tinkled  together  dangerously. 

Again  Miss  Barry  scrutinized  the  flushed 
face  and  shining  eyes  above  the  flat-chested 
little  figure. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Blanche  Aurora?" 

"Up  in  Miss  Linda's  room." 

"What  doing?  You  got  through  up  there 
hours  ago." 

"She  hollered  to  me  down  the  stairs  to 
242 


The  Rainbow 


come   when    I    got   through   in   the   dinin'- 


room." 


Miss  Barry's  eyes  wore  their  extracting 
expression.  She  wondered  what  form  of  in- 
toxicant Linda  had  been  administering  now. 
The  Scylla  of  the  chocolate  gorge  had  passed 
safely.  What  was  this  Charybdis  that  threat- 
ened? 

"Well?"   said  Miss  Barry  suggestively. 

"Well,"  returned  the  "help,"  dancing 
defiance  in  the  round  eyes  which  returned 
her  employer's  regard  brazenly. 

"Don't  you  be  sassy,  Blanche  Aurora," 
warned  Miss  Barry. 

"I  ain't,"  answered  the  other;  and  as  her 
mistress  watched  her  radiant  countenance, 
she  had  her  first  doubt  as  to  whether  Blanche 
Aurora  was  really  so  very  homely.  There 
were  such  things  as  ugly  ducklings  who  out- 
witted their  neighbors.  "Has  Miss  Linda 
been  giving  you  more  candy?" 

"No.  Clo'es,"  returned  the  other  in  such 
a  high  key  of  ecstasy  that  Miss  Barry  re- 
coiled and  winked. 

"How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  I  'm 
not  deaf!"  she  said  sternly.  "What  kind  of 
clothes?" 

243 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Pink  —  and  blue  —  and  not  worn  out," 
was  the  blissful  reply. 

"Absurd.  I  can't  imagine  my  niece  having 
anything  sensible  and  durable  enough  for  a 
little  girl." 

"They  ain't,"  declared  Blanche  Aurora, 
her  eyes  seeing  visions.  "They  ain't  sensi- 
ble —  nor  durable  —  nor  serviceable."  Her 
smile  was  near-seraphic. 

"Then  they're  not  appropriate,"  said  Miss 
Barry  severely. 

"No'm,"  assented  the  other  sweetly. 

Silence  for  a  moment,  then  the  mistress 
broke  forth :  — 

"That's  what  came  in  that  great  package 
yesterday,  then." 

"Yes'm.  She  sent  'way  to  Chicago.  She 
can't  wear  'em  'count  of  her  Pa  dyin',"  ex- 
plained Blanche  Aurora,  with  an  evident 
tempering  of  grief  at  the  loss  of  Lambert 
Barry,  Esq.,  respected  head  of  Barry  &  Co. 

"Linda  has  no  judgment!"  The  low  vexed 
soliloquy  was  not  directed  at  Miss  Barry's 
"help,"  but  she  caught  it. 

"No,  she  ain't  got  no  judgment,"  shrilled 
Blanche  Aurora  triumphantly,  "but  I  bet 
she  knows  how  a  girl  feels  that  ain't  got  any- 
244 


The  Rainbow 


thing  pretty  to  wear,  and  has  to  go  'round 
lookin'  like  somethin'  put  up  in  the  field  to 
scare  the  crows." 

The  child's  eyes  glistened  anew  and  her 
voice  grew  passionate. 

"I  tell  you  what  I'm  goin'  to  do,  Miss 
Barry,  the  first  day  I  wear  that  pink  dress. 
I  'm  goin'  to  take  this  one,"  —  she  plucked 
scornfully  at  a  fold  of  the  faded  gingham,  — 
"and  I'm  goin'  to  kick  it  into  the  ocean. 
Kick  it  —  hard."  She  suited  the  action  to 
the  word,  and  the  glasses  tinkled  again  as 
she  thumped  the  baseboard. 

"That's  very  wrong,  Blanche  Aurora. 
That  dress  is  n't  ragged.  Your  mother 
mended  that  last  tear  very  neatly.  It  would 
do  quite  well  for  your  little  sister." 

"No,  sir  —  I  mean  ma'am.  Nobody  else 
is  goin'  to  have  to  hate  this  the  way  I  have!" 

"Pink,"  repeated  Miss  Barry  disapprov- 
ingly. "The  blue  would  look  quite  well  on 
you,  I  dare  say,  but  pink.  —  Don't  you  know 
your  hair  is  red,  and  you  'd  look  —  " 

Blanche  Aurora  winced.  She  was  afraid  to 
let  her  mistress  go  on  for  fear  she  was  intend- 
ing something  crushing  about  freckles. 

"I  don't  care  —  I  don't  care,"  she  struck 
245 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


in  wildly.  "You  don't  know,  she  don't  know, 
nobody  knows  how  I  love  pink.  Pink's  hap- 
piness, pink  is,  whether  you  see  it  in  the  sky 
or  in  the  roses  or  where!  Don't,  Miss  Barry, 
don't!" 

The  loud  voice  broke,  and  two  big  tears 
suddenly  overflowed  from  the  round  eyes 
and  rushed  down  the  freckled  cheeks,  while 
Blanche  Aurora  ran  stormily  through  the 
second  swing  door  into  the  kitchen. 

The  door  swept  back  and  forth  under  the 
swift  impact,  and  Miss  Barry  stared  at  her 
jellies. 

"Don't  what!"  she  said  to  herself  in  silent 
amazement  and  injury.  "Don't  what!" 


246 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    PINK   DRESS 

MRS.  PORTER  was  Miss  Barry's  prop  and 
stay  in  matters  regarding  her  niece,  and  she 
turned  to  her  when  succeeding  days  revealed 
the  fact  that  Linda  had  set  out  deliberately 
to  spoil  the  "help." 

The  mistress  of  the  house  left  the  kitchen 
one  morning  after  her  plans  were  perfected 
for  dinner  and  sought  Mrs.  Porter.  She 
could  hear  the  faint  buzzing  of  the  sewing 
machine  which  lived  by  the  front  window  in 
the  hall  upstairs. 

She  ascended  with  a  firm  tread.  "This  is 
a  shame,"  she  announced  warmly,  as  she 
stood  beside  her  friend,  viewing  the  lengths 
of  silky  soft  pink  stuff  which  were  running 
beneath  the  swift  needle. 

"What's  a  shame?"  asked  Mrs.  Porter, 
without  stopping  her  work. 

Miss  Barry  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite 
her. 

"That  you  should  be  penned  up  in  the 
247 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


house  this  beautiful  morning  stitching  away 
hour  after  hour.  You  were  doing  the  same 
thing  yesterday." 

"It's  fun,"  returned  Mrs.  Porter. 

"Oh,  fun!"  scornfully.  "You  always  say 
everything  's  fun  —  walking  to  the  village 
when  Blanche  Aurora  has  carelessly  forgotten 
something,  going  out  in  the  rain  to  take  in 
the  towels  she  's  overlooked  —  everything  's 
fun  with  you." 

Mrs.  Porter  smiled  without  raising  her 
eyes  from  her  fine  seam. 

"I  don't  believe  you  ever  taught  music 
eight  hours  a  day,"  she  said. 

"Where's  Linda?"  demanded  Miss  Barry, 
but  she  lowered  her  voice.  She  still  regarded 
her  niece  as  an  uncertain  quantity,  possibly 
dangerous. 

"Gone  to  Portland." 

"For  the  land's  sake!"  ejaculated  Miss 
Barry,  her  tone  no  longer  50^0  voce.  There 
was  no  danger  of  Linda's  hearing  from  the 
trolley  car.  "What  takes  her  there?" 

"Sh!"  warned  Mrs.  Porter,  still  with  her 
gay  smile.  "Underclothes  for  the  little  girl, 
I  think.  I'm  only  guessing." 

"Now,  look  here!"  responded  Miss  Barry. 
248 


The  Pink  Dress 


"Where  is  this  going  to  stop?  I  understand 
Blanche  Aurora  better  than  any  one  else 
does.  Does  n't  Linda  suppose  I  take  any  care 
of  her?  She's  high-headed  enough  by  nature. 
She  needs  a  strong  hand,  and  I  've  held  a  tight 
rein  over  her  on  principle.  She's  a  loud,  stub- 
born, willful  young  one  who  thinks  she  knows 
it  all." 

"I'm  not  sure,  I'm  not  sure,"  replied  Mrs. 
Porter.  "I  kept  her  here  nights  while  you 
were  gone  and  I  used  to  read  to  her  in  the 
evening — 'Little  Women'  and  'Heidi,'  and 
so  on.  She  was  very  gentle  and  nice  and 
seemed  to  enjoy  it." 

Miss  Barry  sighed. 

"  I  've  had  her  two  summers  with  me.  This 
makes  the  third.  I've  taught  her  quite  a 
little  about  cooking  and  I've  nearly  lost  my 
immortal  soul  doing  it;  and  I've  taught  her 
to  be  neat.  Yes,  Blanche  Aurora's  neat.  I 
ain't  afraid  to  eat  after  her.  I  've  taught  her 
to  take  proper  care  of  herself,  to  brush  her 
teeth  and  to  use  plenty  of  soap.  I  give  her 
plenty  of  soap;  and  such  things  are  enough 
to  give  her.  This!"  Miss  Barry  picked  up  a 
fold  of  the  soft  pink  and  rubbed  its  thinness 
between  her  fingers.  "Why,  she'll  catch  it 

249 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


on  a  nail  the  first  day  and  it'll  be  in  slithers 
in  no  time,  and  her  taste  for  good  tough 
calico  will  be  gone  too." 

"There's  plenty  of  pink  calico,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Porter.  "It's  color  that  makes  the  dif- 
ference to  a  child." 

Miss  Barry  continued  to  regard  the  zephyr 
gingham  gloomily.  That  frenzied  defiance, 
"Pink's  happiness,"  seemed  to  sound  again 
in  her  ears. 

"Linda's  just  going  to  fill  the  child's  head 
full  of  notions  and  make  her  discontented," 
she  declared. 

"Perhaps  she  has  been  more  discontented 
than  you  realized,"  suggested  Mrs.  Porter. 
"Anyway,  Miss  Barry,"  she  added,  stopping 
the  machine  and  looking  up,  "I  fancy  we 
are  more  interested  in  Linda  than  in  any  one 
else  just  now.  Are  n't  we?" 

"Well,  of  course,  we  are,"  acknowledged 
Miss  Barry  grudgingly,  realizing  whither  the 
admission  tended. 

"To  provide  her  with  a  wholesome  interest 
is  no  small  matter." 

Miss  Barry  sniffed.  "I  don't  know  how 
wholesome  it  is.  Blanche  Aurora's  as  insub- 
ordinate a  young  one  as  ever  lived.  I'd  hate 

250 


The  Pink  Dress 


to  have  her  think  any  more  of  herself  than 
she  does  already.  All  these  expensive  clothes 
now,  and  then  next  winter,  nothing.  That 
ain't  going  to  help  her  mother  any." 

"That  black-and-white  checked  suit  can  be 
made  warm,"  returned  Mrs.  Porter,  begin- 
ning to  stitch  the  hem  of  the  pink  dress. 

"What  started  her  on  it,  anyway?"  asked 
Miss  Barry.  "'T  aint  a  mite  like  anything  I 
ever  knew  of  Linda." 

Mrs.  Porter  smiled  at  her  work  for  a  silent 
space. 

"Linda  has  been  born  again  in  some  ways," 
she  said  at  last.  "In  the  school  of  this  world 
you  must  have  noticed  that  if  people's  eyes 
are  not  opened  by  truths  vital  to  right  living, 
they  have  to  learn  by  suffering.  Linda  has 
suffered  greatly.  It  has  softened  her  heart. 
In  this  little  experience  right  here  she 
shows  she  longs  to  do  something  for  an- 
other: to  make  the  lot  of  another  happier. 
This  humble  little  girl  happens  to  be  to  her 
hand." 

"Humble!  Not  so  you'd  notice  it,"  com- 
mented Miss  Barry. 

"  I  feel  as  if  we  could  just  lend  a  helping 
hand  and  be  thankful." 

251 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Of  course,  I'm  glad  she's  stopped  mop- 
ing," admitted  Miss  Barry;  "but  I  don't  yet 
see  what  started  her  out  on  this.  It  really 
is  n't  Linda's  business."  The  speaker  was 
still  smarting  under  the  invasion  of  what  she 
considered  her  own  private  and  particular 
territory. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  so  sure.  We  are  our  brother's 
keeper  after  all  and  our  little  sister's  too." 

"  It  don't  do  them  any  good  to  make  them 
vain,"  declared  Miss  Barry.  "However," 
she  added,  "Blanche  Aurora's  as  homely  as 
a  mud  fence.  I  don't  know  as  there's  much 
danger." 

"Sh!  Sh!"  warned  Mrs.  Porter. 

"Oh,  she's  outdoors,  she  won't  hear  me." 

"You  ask  what  started  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter.  "Linda's  awakened  observation  and 
her  desire  to  add  to  the  sum  of  happiness 
might  have  done  so,  but  it  really  was  Blanche 
Aurora's  own  thoughtfulness  that  did  it." 
And  Mrs.  Porter  told  the  story  of  the  daily 
wild  rose. 

"Of  all  things,"  remarked  Miss  Barry 
when  she  had  finished.  "Well,  I  certainly 
never  would  have  thought  that  of  that  sharp 
little  thing." 

252 


The  Pink  Dress 


"We're  none  of  us  such  sharp  things  as 
we  seem,"  returned  Mrs.  Porter. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  you,"  said 
Miss  Barry  presently,  "but  I  think  a  great 
deal  about  that  poor  Mr.  King,"  and  her 
long  earrings  swung  in  a  challenge. 

"I  do,  too,"  returned  the  other  quietly. 

"Linda 's  clothed  now  and  in  her  right 
mind,  as  you  might  say.  I  think  instead  of 
dressing  dolls  it  would  be  more  to  the  point, 
if  her  heart 's  so  soft,  if  she  'd  write  that 
young  man  a  letter  with  some  human  kind- 
ness in  it." 

Mrs.  Porter  looked  out  over  the  sea  which 
seemed  as  ever  ready  to  encroach  on  the 
cottage  and  carry  it  off  in  triumph. 

"Perhaps  she  has  done  so,"  she  replied. 

"No,  sir.  I  don't  believe  it,"  was  the  ener- 
getic response,  earrings  swinging  in  the  strong 
head-shaking.  "If  she  had,  he'd  have  an- 
swered, and  I've  seen  every  letter  that's 
come  to  her.  I  know  his  writing." 

"No  one  sees  it  very  often,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter,  stitching  steadily.  "I  should  feel 
much  easier  if  he  would  write  to  me,  yet  I 
don't  urge  it  because  I  won't  add  a  straw  to 
his  burdens." 

253 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Well,  I  don't  see  how  Linda,  with  some  of 
the  memories  she's  got  of  her  own  actions, 
can  have  the  heart  to  think  of  clothes  in- 
stead of  trying  to  atone  for  her  injustice." 

"We  don't  have  to  take  care  of  that," 
said  Mrs.  Porter.  "I  love  Bertram  so  dearly 
that  I  've  had  something  to  meet,  to  conquer 
resentment;  but  the  last  thing  we  need  worry 
about  is  that  people  won't  get  sufficient  pun- 
ishment for  their  mistakes.  The  law  is  work- 
ing all  the  time,  and  when  we  strike  against 
it  until  we're  sufficiently  hurt  we  turn  to  the 
gospel:  Love." 

"H'm,"  grunted  Miss  Barry.  "Lots  o' 
folks  don't  seem  to  get  hurt.  They  just 
go  ahead  and  flourish  like  the  green  bay 
tree." 

"  You  don't  see  far  enough,"  returned  Mrs. 
Porter,  smiling,  "that's  all.  Everything 
is  n't  finished  when  we're  through  with  this 
world;  but  many  times  you  can  see  the  work- 
ing right  here." 

"I'd  like  to,"  snapped  Miss  Barry  sen- 
tentiously. 

Mrs.  Porter  finished  her  hem  and  drew 
the  dress  from  the  machine.  It  had  a  tucked 
skirt,  and  narrow  fine  embroidery  edging  the 

254 


The  Pink  Dress 


sailor  collar  and  cuffs.  She  shook  it  out  and 
held  it  before  the  other's  eyes.  "Pretty, 
is  n't  it?"  she  said. 

Miss  Barry  made  some  inarticulate  re- 
sponse, arose,  and  went  into  her  own  room. 
She  had  some  calico  in  her  lower  drawer 
now,  designed  as  a  parting  gift  to  her  "help" 
when  the  summer  should  be  over.  It  was 
stone  gray  with  white  spots. 

A  little  color  burned  in  her  cheeks  as  she 
opened  the  drawer  and  looked  at  it. 

"Sensible  and  suitable,"  she  said  to  her- 
self: "sensible  and  suitable.  She'll  be  glad 
enough  of  it  some  day  when  those  flimsy 
things  are  in  ribbons." 

It  was  supper  time  when  Linda  returned 
from  the  city,  and  as  soon  as  Blanche  Aurora 
had  done  the  supper  dishes  she  always  went 
home. 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  Linda,  while  she 
was  waiting  at  table  to-night,  as  nearly  all 
the  time  as  possible;  and  this  evening  there 
was  no  change  in  her  expression;  but  she  too 
had  been  listening  for  several  days  to  the 
delectable  music  of  the  sewing  machine. 
She  had  eren  been  fitted  to  the  pink  and  blue 
dresses  and  she  saw  them  in  a  heavenly 

255 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


mirage  floating  above  dishes,  washtubs,  and 
scrubbing-pails. 

To  do  Miss  Barry  justice  she  never  al- 
lowed the  child  to  do  any  heavy  work,  and 
the  latter's  laundry  efforts  were  limited  to 
the  dishtowels. 

From  three  to  five  every  day  Blanche 
Aurora  had  two  hours  to  herself;  but  she  was 
expected  to  remain  within  call  and  to  answer 
the  door. 

She  had  enjoyed  the  high  happiness,  there- 
fore, of  doing  some  of  the  ripping  on  these 
gowns  of  a  millionaire's  daughter  which  were 
designed  to  clothe  her  own  slight  form. 

The  way  her  ears  listened  for  Linda's  call 
now  at  three  o'clock  of  an  afternoon,  and  the 
celerity  with  which  she  obeyed  the  voice  and 
fled  up  the  back  stairs,  every  freckle  on  her 
expectant  face  seeming  to  radiate,  was  ob- 
served by  her  mistress. 

All  the  morning  of  the  day  following 
Linda's  visit  to  Portland  she  received  rebukes 
from  Miss  Barry  for  slap-dashing,  as  that 
lady  called  it. 

Blanche  Aurora  felt,  in  every  one  of  her 
small  but  evident  bones,  that  the  pink  dress 
must  be  finished.  Mrs.  Porter  had  promised 

256 


The  Pink  Dress 


her  that  it  should  be  the  first  one  in  hand. 
She  panted  for  three  o'clock  to  arrive  while 
Miss  Barry  gave  her  sundry  dissertations  on 
the  wear  and  tear  on  solid  silver  when 
whacked  together  and  the  sinfulness  of 
chipping  goldbanded  china. 

"You  know  I  told  you,"  she  warned,  "that 
I  bought  a  stock  set  on  purpose  this  summer, 
so  that  I  could  replace  everything  you  break 
and  take  it  out  of  your  wages.  You  have 
fair  warning." 

"Yes  'm,"  replied  Blanche  Aurora  with  the 
loud  pedal  down.  She  was  possessed  by  a 
recklessness  of  anticipation.  What  did  she 
care  for  wages !  What  had  they  ever  brought 
her  comparable  to  the  treasures,  unearned, 
which  had  descended  upon  her  from  a  para- 
dise named  Chicago  where  a  Cape  boy  had 
been  able  to  pick  up  a  million  dollars  in  the 
golden  streets! 

It  was  her  experience  that  three  o'clock  did 
finally  come  every  afternoon;  but  this  day 
was  evidently  going  to  be  an  exception. 

At  dinner,  the  weather  being  unusually 
warm,  Linda  looked  like  a  dark-haired  angel 
in  a  plain  gown  of  white  crepe  de  chine. 
Blanche  Aurora  was  faintly  disappointed 

257 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


because  her  quiet  manner  was  just  as  usual. 
Surely,  if  her  dream  was  to  come  true,  and 
to-day  was  the  day,  Linda  and  Mrs.  Porter 
could  n't  behave  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Wandering  about  within  sight  of  the  cot- 
tage, those  vacation  hours  were  the  ones 
during  which  the  little  girl  found  the  perfect 
wild  rose  designed  for  Mr.  Barry's  picture. 
She  carried  it  always  to  the  room  at  the  back 
of  the  house  which  was  hers,  and  where  she 
slept  when  Miss  Barry  wished  her  to  stay  all 
night. 

There  was  a  closet  there,  curtained  off, 
where  her  waterproof  and  rubbers  and  um- 
brella reposed  in  bad  weather,  and  a  dark 
calico  dress  also  hung  there  in  case  she  got 
wet  and  had  to  change.  Three  hooks  in  the 
middle  of  the  closet  had  lately  attained 
significance.  No  human  being  could  be  cruel 
enough  to  ask  another  to  be  separated  from 
the  new  dresses  all  day  by  leaving  them  at 
home.  Besides,  her  sister  Letty  was  almost 
as  tall  as  herself.  She  would  be  sure  to  try 
on  those  sacred  habiliments  and  wear  them 
all  around  the  neighborhood.  The  thought 
was  paralyzing. 

Although  Blanche  Aurora  was  quite  cer- 
258 


The  Pink  Dress 


tain  several  times  between  one-thirty  and 
three  that  the  clock  had  stopped,  it  did 
finally  laboriously  drag  its  hands  around 
until  they  looked  like  the  legs  of  a  ballet- 
dancer  she  had  once  seen  on  a  circus  poster. 
It  was  actually  three  o'clock.  She  tiptoed 
toward  the  stairs.  No  sound. 

"If  I  don't  get  the  rose  I'm  afraid  I'll  for- 
git  it,"  she  soliloquized.  So  she  went  out  the 
back  door  and  around  to  the  front  of  the 
house  to  a  great  rock  under  whose  lee  some 
rosebushes  cuddled  out  of  the  wind.  The 
minute  she  felt  herself  out  of  sight  of  Linda's 
window,  however,  she  panted  back  for  fear 
by  some  tragic  mischance  her  fairy  god- 
mother might  call,  and  receiving  no  answer 
imagine  that  she  had  gone  home  for  an  hour 
as  Miss  Barry  sometimes  gave  her  permission 
to  do. 

Finally,  after  much  darting  back  and  forth, 
Blanche  Aurora  secured  the  rose,  and  re- 
turning to  the  house,  placed  it  as  usual  in  a 
glass  in  her  own  room  to  wait  for  the  morning. 

As  she  emerged  she  heard  her  name  called 
at  the  head  of  the  back  stairs. 

She  landed  on  the  lower  step  in  two  leaps. 

"Yes,  Miss  Linda,"  she  answered,  the  heart 
259 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


under  the  outgrown  gingham  going  like  a 
triphammer. 

"I  want  you  now." 

It  was  as  the  voice  of  an  angel  in  the 
yearning  ears. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  and  Blanche  Aurora  as- 
cended, two  steps  at  a  time.  Her  dingy 
sneakers  would  not  have  bent  daisies  had 
they  been  growing  upon  the  staircase. 


260 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   WILD    ROSE 

As  the  panting  little  figure  approached  and 
hesitated  in  her  doorway,  Linda  turned 
from  some  white  stuff  she  had  been  piling 
on  the  bed  and  met  the  round,  expectant 
eyes,  "Come  here,  Blanche  Aurora,"  she 
said.  "I  want  to  show  you  something." 

With  long  steps  the  beneficiary  was  be- 
side her. 

"Here  are  some  things  I  found  for  you  in 
Portland  yesterday." 

Blanche  Aurora  dragged  her  gaze  from  the 
pink  and  blue  dresses  that  were  lying  there, 
finished,  and  beheld  white  underclothing,  and 
large  enveloping  aprons  —  a  pink-and-white 
checked  one,  a  blue-and-white  checked  one, 
and  one  all  white  in  a  satiny-looking  plaid. 
There  was  also  a  pile  of  stockings  and  some 
black  low  shoes  and  white  sneakers.  A  bride, 
inspecting  a  complete  trousseau  just  arrived 
from  Paris,  might  experience  in  faint  degree 
the  elation  that  choked  Blanche  Aurora  now. 

261 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"For  me?"  she  uttered  mechanically. 

"For  you,  you  good  little  thing,"  said 
Linda.  "Now  take  these,  and  go  into  the 
bathroom  and  put  them  on." 

Like  one  in  a  dream,  Blanche  Aurora  ac- 
cepted the  underclothing,  stockings,  and 
sneakers  put  into  her  arms,  and  marched 
toward  the  bathroom,  her  head  held  high  and 
the  fishhook  braids  quivering  down  her  ging- 
ham back.  She  went  in  and  closed  the  door. 

Linda  smiled,  and  seating  herself  in  her 
wicker  rocker  clasped  her  hands  behind  her 
head. 

Mrs.  Porter  came  to  the  door. 

"What  did  she  say?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"Oh,  nothing.  She's  far  beyond  speech. 
What  did  you  do  with  Aunt  Belinda?" 

"Mrs.  Lindsay  arrived  and  Miss  Barry  is 
showing  her  her  rockery  and  the  ferns,  so  I 
thought  she  was  safe  and  I'd  come  up  for  the 
fun." 

"You  certainly  deserve  to."  Linda  sighed 
unconsciously.  "Would  n't  it  be  wonderful 
if  everybody  could  be  made  happy  so  easily! 
I  believe  that  is  the  only  satisfaction  there 
is  in  the  world,  after  all  —  making  others 
happy,  whether  you  are  so  yourself  or  not." 
262 


The  Wild  Rose 


Mrs.  Porter  came  in  and  took  another  of 
the  wicker  chairs. 

"I  don't  believe  you  can  avoid  the  latter 
if  you  do  the  former,"  she  remarked. 

Linda  regarded  the  speaker,  a  line  appear- 
ing in  her  smooth  brow.  She  often  suspected 
Mrs.  Porter  to  be  thinking  of  Bertram.  She 
had  no  right  to  ask  impossibilities.  The 
superhuman  should  not  be  required  of  the 
merely  human. 

"It  is  easier  said  than  done,  though,  as  a 
usual  thing,"  said  the  girl  aloud.  "There  is 
one  man  in  Chicago,  for  instance,  to  whom 
I  owe  much  kindness,  whom  I  could  n't 
make  happy  except  by  marrying  him." 

"Not  Bertram,"  returned  Mrs.  Porter 
quickly. 

"Of  course  not  Bertram,"  said  Linda 
coolly. 

"  It  may  be  some  relief  to  you  to  know  that 
Bertram  no  longer  wishes  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter,  after  a  moment  of  silence. 

Linda's  lip  curled  as  she  kept  her  lazy 
attitude,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  dark 
head. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  repeated.  "Bertram 
may  make  business  mistakes  occasionally, 

263 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


but  he  will  not  commit  that  of  marrying  a 
poor  girl." 

"Linda!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Porter.  Color 
rushed  over  her  face  and  she  waited  a 
moment  to  gain  control.  "How  can  you 
insult  him  in  his  troubles!"  she  finished. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  returned  the  girl  in 
the  same  tone.  "It  is  the  hardest  thing  in 
the  world  for  me  to  remember  your  rela- 
tionship." 

"Your  thinking  it  is  quite  as  bad  as  say- 
ing it." 

"Be  fair  to  me,  dear  Mrs.  Porter.  You 
can't  blame  me  for  not  having  illusions, 
after  my  sledgehammer  blows." 

"You  can  feel  compassion  instead  of  ha- 
tred, if  any  one  has  wronged  you." 

"That  is  n't  human  nature." 

"Of  course  not.  We  have  to  learn  that 
we  can't  have  any  respect  for  human  nature. 
Spiritual  nature  is  the  only  thing  we  must 
nurture.  We  don't  have  to  take  care  of 
punishing  those  who  have  wronged  us. 
*  Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay,  saith  the 
Lord.'  In  other  words,  the  working  of 
spiritual  law  brings  inevitable  punishment  to 
all  who  violate  it.  We  may  well  exercise  com- 
264 


The  Wild  Rose 


passion  instead  of  hatred  to  wrongdoers.  If 
Bertram  has,  humanly  speaking,  deserved  all 
the  contempt  you  send  him,  you  can  well 
afford  to  feel  more  kindly  toward  him 
than  before.  Nothing  but  his  own  repent- 
ance and  amends  can  end  his  punishment; 
and  rest  assured  you  do  not  need  to  add 
to  it." 

"Mrs.  Porter,"  —  the  girl  dropped  her 
nonchalant  attitude,  —  "I  meant  it  when  I 
asked  you  to  forgive  me.  If  I  lost  your  friend- 
ship I  should  lose  the  greatest  treasure  I 
have  left." 

"You  won't  lose  it,  poor  child,"  was  the 
response,  as  the  deep  color  faded  from  Mrs. 
Porter's  face.  "You  strain  it  when  you 
speak  so  of  Bertram,  but  I  have  to  remember 
exactly  the  truths  I  have  been  telling  you." 

"That  I  shall  be  punished?" 

"Assuredly,  dear  child  —  just  as  far  as 
you  are  wrong." 

Linda  leaned  forward  suddenly  and  laid 
an  affectionate  hand  on  the  other's  knee. 

"But  I'm  right,  dear,"  she  said,  her  eyes 
bright. 

Mrs.  Porter  patted  the  hand  in  silence  and 
the  bathroom  door  slowly  opened. 

265 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Blanche  Aurora,  looking  very  young  in- 
deed, clad  in  white,  with  white  arms  and 
neck,  and  tanned  face  and  hands,  stood  with 
the  old  plaid  gingham  over  her  arm.  Her 
gaze  fled  to  the  bed,  then  returned  to  the 
rusty  plaid.  So  might  a  butterfly  regard  the 
chrysalis  from  which  it  had  just  emerged. 

"Do  I  put  this  on  again?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  returned  Linda.  "Fold  it  and  put 
it  on  that  chair  over  there." 

Light  scintillated  in  Blanche  Aurora's 
eyes  as  she  obeyed;  a  light  which  boded  ill 
for  the  faded  gingham. 

Linda  rose  and  placed  a  chair  in  front  of 
her  dressing-table. 

"Come  here  and  sit  down,"  she  said. 

Blanche  Aurora  hesitated  but  for  an  in- 
stant before  complying. 

"What  be  you  goin'  to  do?"  she  asked  as 
Linda  lifted  the  tortured  braids  and  inspected 
the  white  string.  "Goin'  to  cut  my  hair 
off?" 

"Do  you  want  me  to?" 

"I  don't  care.  It's  only  a  bother,  any- 
way. I  have  to  braid  it  every  few  days." 

"Every  few  days?  Oh,  Blanche  Aurora, 
you  ought  to  brush  it  every  night." 

266 


The  Wild  Rose 


"I  should  worry,"  ejaculated  the  other. 
"Red  hair  don't  deserve  anything  like  that. 
If  I  did  n't  have  red  hair  I  would  n't  have 
so  many  freckles  and  I'd  look  nicer  in  the 
pink  dress.  I  pinch  it  good  when  I  braid  it," 
added  Blanche  Aurora  savagely. 

"I  should  think  you  did,"  returned  Linda, 
whose  deft  fingers  were  meanwhile  unbraid- 
ing  the  hair  and  removing  the  disciplinary 
string.  "It  is  kinky  enough  to  stuff  a  little 
mattress.  You  have  a  nice  lot  of  it.  Mrs. 
Porter,  will  you  hand  me  that  box  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed?  I'm  glad  I  remembered 
to  get  you  these."  And  Linda  opened  the 
box,  displaying  a  white  brush  and  comb 
which  she  began  using  on  the  bright  hair 
while  its  owner  colored  with  excitement 
through  all  her  tan  at  the  possession  of 
such  grandeur. 

She  sat  silent,  watching  in  the  glass  the 
amazing  vision  of  Linda  combing  and  brush- 
ing the  freed  locks  which  seemed  making  the 
most  of  their  escape  to  fly  in  all  directions 
and  encircle  the  excited  face  with  a  bright 
aureole.  Linda  turned  and  smiled  at  Mrs. 
Porter,  who  nodded  appreciation.  Many  a 
fine  lady  would  gladly  pay  a  small  fortune 

267 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


for  the  luxuriant  shining  waves  that  rip- 
pled now  under  Linda's  brush. 

"I  suppose  your  hair  is  straight,"  she  said. 

"As  a  poker,"  agreed  its  owner  promptly. 
"  I  douse  it  good  when  I  have  to  braid  it  over 
and  you'd  better  too,  Miss  Linda.  You 
can't  never  braid  it  the  way  it  is  now;  and  it 
likes  to  git  the  best  of  you." 

The  speaker  eyed  her  halo  vindinctively. 
Her  hair  was  an  ancient  enemy  and  only  her 
mother's  commands  had  protected  its  exist- 
ence. 

"When  did  you  wash  it?" 

"Last  week.  I  don't  never  wash  it  win- 
ters, but  summers  Miss  Barry  makes  me." 

"You  don't  need  to  wash  it  often  in  this 
clean  place;  but  brush  it  a  lot  with  your 
white  brush.  Will  you,  Blanche  Aurora?" 

This  was  a  more  awful  demand  than  Linda 
realized.  Overwhelmed  as  she  was  with 
benefits  her  beneficiary  demurred. 

"I  can't  only  once  in  a  few  days." 

"But  you're  going  to  braid  it  every  day 


now." 


"Oh,  Miss  Linda,"  was  the  aghast  re- 
sponse. "I  ain't  got  time.  I  couldn't! 
You  don't  know  my  hair.  It  acts  as  ugly  as 

268 


The  Wild  Rose 


sin;  jest  as  if  it  knew  it  was  botherin'  the 
life  out  of  me.  I  have  to  git  the  children  off 
to  school  — " 

"Not  now." 

"Well,  not  now;  but  Miss  Barry  wants 
me  the  middle  o'  May,  and  I  have  to  git  over 
early  — " 

"Yes,  but  it 's  July  now." 

Blanche  Aurora  ceased  protesting  and 
winced. 

"Oh,  did  I  pull?  I'll  be  careful." 

"Pull  it  good  if  you  want  to.  Good 
enough  for  it." 

"You  must  like  your  pretty  hair,"  said 
Linda. 

"Pretty!"  uttered  Blanche  Aurora. 

Of  all  the  surprising  things  that  had  hap- 
pened to  her,  that  adjective  was  perhaps 
the  most  surprising. 

"Certainly  it  is,  and  it  deserves  good 
treatment." 

Blanche  Aurora  looked  in  the  mirror  at 
her  friend's  face.  Could  Linda,  every  tiny 
escaping  hair  of  whose  wavy  locks  curled 
in  a  curve  of  beauty,  —  could  she  call  this 
red  stubborn  mane  pretty?  Then  there  was 
no  more  to  be  said. 

269 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Blanche  Aurora  leaned  back  and  studied 
the  narrow  trimming  on  her  new  clothes  and 
rubbed  her  hard  hands  surreptitiously 
against  the  soft  fabric  of  her  white  petticoat. 
Linda  divided  the  modified  waves  of  hair 
into  two  parts. 

"Now  your  hair  will  soon  straighten  out," 
she  said.  "Let  it  stay  straight  and  smooth 
and  well-brushed." 

"I'd  like  curly  hair  like  yours,"  returned 
Blanche  Aurora;  "but  I  guess  I'd  pretty 
near  die  tryin'  to  comb  it." 

Linda  smiled.  "You  remind  me  of  the 
tramp  who  said  he  did  n't  see  how  folks 
stood  it  to  comb  their  hair  every  day.  He 
did  his  only  once  a  year,  and  then  it  most 
killed  him.  Now,  you  must  n't  strangle 
your  hair  with  that  string  any  more,"  she 
added. 

"Strangle  it!  I  think  that's  real  funny," 
said  Blanche  Aurora  judicially.  She  was 
radiant.  There  was  only  one  small  cloud  on 
her  horizon  and  that  was  the  prospect  of  a 
daily  wrestle  with  that  hair.  That  hair! 
Why,  angels  could  n't  go  through  it  and  keep 
their  religion. 

"Now,  see  what  I'm  doing?"  said  Linda. 
270 


The  Wild  Rose 


"You'll  be  glad  to  do  this  when  you  see  hovr 
nice  it  looks." 

With  round  and  solemn  gaze  Blanche 
Aurora  watched  the  braiding  of  first  one 
half  and  then  the  other  of  her  captured  locks. 

"Be  sure  to  begin  as  near  the  middle  of 
your  neck  as  you  can." 

Linda  swiftly  doubled  the  two  ends  of  the 
braids  and  fastened  them. 

She  looked  at  Mrs.  Porter  again  as  the 
fluffy  braids  hung  down  the  slender  back, 
and  again  Mrs.  Porter  nodded. 

"Miss  Barry  wants  'em  tight,"  declared 
the  child. 

"Miss  Barry  will  be  satisfied  with  this," 
rejoined  Linda.  Then  she  proceeded  to  cross 
the  braids  and  wind  them  around  the  small 
head,  tucking  the  ends  out  of  sight  with 
hair  pins.  This  loosened  the  hair  at  the 
temples  and  the  round  eyes  took  in  the  fact 
that  the  arrangement  was  becoming  even  to 
freckles;  but  the  breath-taking  moment  was 
to  come. 

Linda  opened  a  box  on  her  dresser  and 
revealed  a  fresh  pink  and  a  blue  ribbon.  She 
took  out  the  pink  one  and  soon  a  generous 
bow  surmounted  those  braids,  and  Blanche 

271 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Aurora  gasped  with  pleasure.  Her  white, 
low-necked,  short-sleeved  reflection  with  the 
new  coiffure  held  her  happy  gaze,  and  when 
Mrs.  Porter  brought  the  pink  dress  and 
slipped  it  on  and  buttoned  it  up,  the  red 
beneath  the  freckles  was  very  deep,  and  the 
modern  Cinderella  was  speechless. 

At  last  she  turned  to  Linda  and  threw  her 
slender  arms  around  her. 

"I  can't  say  nothin',"  she  gulped. 

Linda  pushed  her  gently  back  and  took 
hold  of  the  hard  hands  and  her  eyes  were 
soft  with  an  inner  flame  as  they  looked  down 
into  the  glistening  ones. 

"I  can  say  something,  Blanche  Aurora," 
she  answered  kindly.  "I  can  say  that  you 
look  like  a  wild  rose.  Do  you  understand?" 

She  put  her  arm  around  the  happy  girl 
and  led  her  to  the  small  table  where  stood 
her  father's  picture,  and  blooming  before  it, 
the  child's  offering.  "Like  a  wild  rose, 
Blanche  Aurora,"  she  repeated  slowly. 

The  pink-crowned  head  lifted  to  her. 
"Oh,  Miss  Linda,"  she  exclaimed  breath- 
lessly. 

"Now,  then,"  said  the  fairy  godmother  in 
a  different  tone,  "you  have  a  chest  of  draw- 
272 


The  Wild  Rose 


ers  down  in  your  back  room;  and  after  a 
while  I  want  you  to  put  white  paper  in  them 
and  come  up  and  get  these  things,"  waving 
a  hand  toward  the  bed.  "But  first  you 
go  down  and  see  Miss  Barry." 

"  I  'm  'most  afraid,"  declared  Blanche  Au- 
rora, wringing  her  hands  together.  "She 
thinks  a  pink  dress  and  red  hair  is  awful." 

"She  won't,"  returned  Linda.  "Run 
along.  I  think  she's  outdoors.  Yes,  I  see 
her  there,  stooping  over  the  rockery.  Mrs. 
Lindsay  has  gone  and  she's  alone." 

Blanche  Aurora  left  the  room.  She  even 
forgot  the  chrysalis  and  her  determination  to 
kick  it  into  the  ocean.  Seraphs,  wafted  on 
rosy  clouds,  forget  such  earthly  longings. 

Mrs.  Porter  and  Linda  stood  at  the  win- 
dow where  they  could  see  all  that  occurred, 
and  despite  Linda's  assured  words  she  was 
not  sure  that  she  wished  to  hear  what  would 
be  said.  Her  college  chums  would  have  recog- 
nized Linda  Barry  again  in  the  mischievous 
sparkle  of  her  eyes. 

Miss  Barry,  rising  from  her  labors  among 
the  ferns,  beheld  a  bareheaded  little  girl 
coming  slowly  toward  her.  The  stranger  was 
clothed  in  a  pink  dress  with  spotless  white 

273 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


stockings  and  sneakers,  and  as  she  advanced 
the  sun  turned  to  gold  the  fluffy  hair  under 
a  billowy  pink  bow. 

Miss  Barry  pulled  her  spectacles  down 
from  the  top  of  her  head,  and  even  then 
for  a  second  she  thought  some  summer 
boarder  was  straying  too  far  from  home. 
In  another  moment  full  recognition  burst 
upon  her. 

"For  the  land's  sake!"  she  exclaimed; 
and  the  two  stared  at  one  another  for  a  si- 
lent space.  It  would  have  taken  a  hard  heart 
to  resist  the  beatified,  yet  shy,  expression 
on  the  face  of  Blanche  Aurora,  and  Miss 
Barry's  was  not  hard. 

"Pink's  happiness.  Pink's  happiness!" 
Miss  Belinda  saw  the  statement  exemplified. 

"Come  here,  you  little  monkey,"  she 
said. 

It  was  n't  so  pleasant  to  be  called  a  monkey 
as  a  wild  rose,  but  Miss  Barry's  smile  was 
different  from  any  her  "help"  had  ever  yet 
received  from  her.  Perhaps  she  liked  mon- 
keys. 

Blanche  Aurora  came  nearer,  aware  every 
moment  of  the  fine  materials  touching  her 
skin. 

274 


The  Wild  Rose 


"Well,  well,  so  my  niece  has  n't  got  by 
the  doll-dressing  stage,"  said  her  mistress. 

The  lenient  tone  restored  confidence  and 
unloosed  an  eager  tongue. 

"Oh,  Miss  Barry,  I  ain't  a  doll.  I'll  work 
just  as  hard.  I'll  work  harder.  I've  got 
aprons  to  cover  me  all  up  and  I  won't 
break  a  dish  nor  slam  the  silver.  The  aprons 
is  the  most  beautiful  you  ever  see  and  these 
stockings  they  feel  just  like  silk." 

The  reference  to  the  stockings  flowed  forth 
because  Miss  Barry  was  stooping  and  run- 
ning her  hand  down  the  slim  leg. 

The  watchers  above  were  edified  to  see  her 
lift  up  the  pink  skirt  and  examine  the 
underwear. 

"You're  good  clear  to  the  bone,"  declared 
Miss  Belinda  at  last,  approvingly.  "Pretty 
sensible  things,  considering  that  Linda 
bought  them." 

The  speaker  rose  again  to  her  full  stat- 
ure and  looked  curiously  at  her  maid's 
head. 

"What  under  the  canopy — "  she  began 
slowly.  "Have  you  got  a  wig  on?" 

The  broad  wavy  braids,  glinting  in  the 
sun  as  Blanche  Aurora  turned  her  head, 

275 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


seemed  to  bear  no  relation  to  the  strained 
tightness  usual  over  her  temples. 

"No  'm,  it's  my  same  horrid  red  hair,  but 
I  don't  look  at  it,  I  look  at  the  pink  bow," 
was  the  eager  response.  "The  kids  at 
school  was  always  teasin'  me,"  —  a  gulp  of 
hurting  memory  interrupted  the  speech,  — 
"they  said  I  was  the  homeliest  girl  on  the 
Cape,  and  it 's  nice  for  homely  girls  to  have 
somethin'  pretty  on  their  heads  so  folks  can 
look  at  that  instead  of  at  them." 

"H'm,"  returned  Miss  Barry,  touched  by 
the  ingenuous  burst.  She  had  never  suspected 
her  willful  help  of  feelings.  "Well,  you  cer- 
tainly look  very  nice,  and  I'm  glad  that 
you  're  happy." 

"Oh,  Miss  Barry,  may  I  put  some  of  the 
white  shelf  paper  in  the  burer  drawers  in 
my  room?  Miss  Linda  told  me  to,  and  I'm 
to  go  back  and  get  the  rest  o'  the  clo'es  and 
and  fix  'em  nice  in  the  burer." 

"You're  going  to  keep  them  here,  are 
you?" 

"Don't  you  think  I'd  better?"  Blanche 
Aurora  wrung  her  hands  together  eagerly. 

Miss  Barry  took  a  mental  survey  of  the 
child's  crowded  home  and  the  small  marau- 

276 


The  Wild  Rose 


ders  who  would  be  likely  to  molest  her  treas- 
ures.    She  nodded. 

"Yes,  that's  best,"  she  agreed  senten- 
tiously,  and  instantly  there  was  a  pink  flash, 
and  a  twinkling  of  white  pipe-stem  legs  across 
the  grass,  and  Blanche  Aurora  was  not. 


277 


CHAPTER  XX 

BEHIND    THE    BIRCHES 

WHEN  Linda  wrote  to  Chicago  for  the  dresses 
to  be  sent  on,  she  asked  the  caretaker  of  the 
house  to  send  a  photograph  of  her  mother 
which  she  would  find  in  her  dresser  drawer. 

The  woman  had  been  in  doubt  as  to  which 
picture  was  wanted,  as  there  were  several  in 
the  box  indicated,  so  she  had  packed  box  and 
all,  and  it  now  lay  on  Linda's  table  waiting  to 
be  opened. 

When  the  radiant  little  Cape  girl  had 
carried  downstairs  the  last  of  her  possessions 
and  Mrs.  Porter  had  gone  to  her  own  room, 
Linda  turned  her  attention  to  this  box. 

Taking  off  the  string  she  lifted  the  cover, 
and  straight  up  into  her  eyes  looked  Bertram 
King.  The  likeness  was  a  striking  one  and 
color  flowed  over  her  face.  As  she  gazed, 
the  thought  came  to  her  that  Bertram  must 
have  consummated  a  good  business  deal  on 
the  day  he  sat  for  this. 

There  was  lurking  humor  in  the  eyes  and 
278 


Behind  the  Birches 


lips.  It  was  Bertram  at  his  best:  his  most 
prosperous.  A  clean-cut  face,  she  thought, 
as  she  looked,  a  well-born  face:  intelligent, 
full  of  character  and  confidence. 

"Overconfidence,"  murmured  the  girl,  and 
turned  the  picture  face  down.  She  closed 
her  eyes  in  endurance  of  the  flood  of  asso- 
ciations the  photograph  had  evoked,  and 
stood  motionless  thus  for  a  minute  before 
delving  deeper  into  the  box.  It  held  pictures 
of  several  of  her  friends,  among  them  one  of 
Fred  Whitcomb.  Her  sad  lips  smiled  as  she 
encountered  his  wide-awake  countenance. 

"Good  old  Fred,"  she  thought.  "Some 
day  I  must  write  to  him." 

She  found  her  mother's  pictures  and  those 
of  several  girl  friends:  also  one  of  Mrs. 
Porter.  Some  of  these  she  left  out;  but  the 
one  of  Bertram  King  went  back  into  the  box. 
She  took  one  more  glance  at  it  and  the  veiled 
humor  in  the  eyes  seemed  to  mock  her. 
Face  down  it  went  in,  quickly,  the  cover  was 
put  on,  and  the  whole  placed  in  her  closet. 

At  the  same  time  her  thought  was  con- 
trasting the  pictured  face  taken  one  year 
ago  with  Bertram's  appearance  the  last  time 
she  saw  him. 

279 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


At  the  supper  table  that  evening  Blanche 
Aurora,  as  she  waited  on  table,  was  en- 
veloped in  the  white  apron  with  satiny 
plaids. 

"She's  not  a  bad-looking  child,"  said 
Linda  on  one  occasion  when  the  girl  had  left 
the  room  to  get  more  biscuit.  "That  little 
turn-up  nose  of  hers  is  cute  and  her  teeth 
are  so  white." 

"Those  teeth!"  ejaculated  Miss  Barry. 
"The  time  I  had!  But  I  finally  taught  her 
to  keep  them  properly." 

"Everybody  knows  happiness  is  the  best 
beautifier,  anyway,"  remarked  Mrs.  Por- 
ter. "It  looks  as  if  you  would  have  an 
angel  in  your  kitchen  from  now  on,  Miss 
Barry." 

"Yes,  'looks,'"  retorted  the  hostess.  "Fa- 
miliarity breeds  contempt  and  I  don't  know 
how  long  Blanche  Aurora  can  be  subdued 
by  her  dry  goods.  I  ought  to  make  her  put 
on  her  brown  calico  to  go  home  in." 

"Oh,  don't,  Aunt  Belinda.  Let  her  have 
all  the  fun  there  is  in  it." 

So  Miss  Barry  consented  to  leave  her 
"help"  in  freedom;  but  the  shrewd  little 
brain  under  the  fluffy  red  wig  was  working. 

280 


Behind  the  Birches 


Blanche  Aurora  knew  about  where  the  divid- 
ing line  would  occur  in  the  bosom  of  her  fam- 
ily between  respect  and  ridicule.  She  felt 
instinctively  that  the  limit  would  be  reached 
before  that  crown  of  glory,  the  pink  bow, 
should  dazzle  the  irreverent  vision  of  the 
home  circle.  She,  therefore,  when  *he  dishes 
were  dried,  went  to  her  room,  took  off  the 
ribbon,  and  laid  it  reverently  in  her  upper 
drawer  beside  the  blue  one.  She  gazed  soul- 
fully  for  a  minute  on  the  effect,  then  closed 
the  drawer  softly. 

There  was  a  clean  towel  on  the  bureau  and 
upon  it  reposed  the  white  brush  and  comb 
and  near  that  a  bottle  of  violet  toilet  water. 
Yes,  the  last  thing  the  wonderful  one  had 
put  into  her  hands  was  this  bottle  of  green 
liquid  which  the  child  said  to  herself  "smelled 
purple." 

She  hated  to  go  home.  A  thief  might 
break  in  during  the  night  and  bereave  her. 
She  lifted  up  the  closet  curtain  and  looked  at 
the  pretty  blue  dress  hanging  there. 

Well,  she  thought,  with  firm  lips,  the  thief 
should  n't  get  the  pink  one,  for  she  was  going 
to  wear  it.  Further  cautious  thoughts  of 
rough,  teasing  brothers  caused  her  to  remove 

281 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


the  hairpins  from  her  braids  and  let  them 
hang  down  her  back  as  of  old.  Then  she  put 
on  her  new  white  sweater  and  started  to 
run  across  the  fields  to  a  properly  awe- 
struck family. 

A  week  later  Blanche  Aurora  was  alone  in 
the  house  one  afternoon  cleaning  silver.  The 
day  was  beautiful,  and  no  one  stayed  indoors 
who  was  not  obliged  to.  She  glanced  up 
occasionally  at  the  kitchen  clock  and  saw 
that  in  half  an  hour  she  too  would  be  at 
liberty  to  go  out  and  get  Miss  Linda's  rose, 
and  hunt  for  four-leaved  clovers. 

She  enjoyed  finding  these  and  placing 
them  beside  Linda's  plate  at  the  table. 

"But,"  objected  her  friend  one  day,  "I 
have  to  find  them  myself,  don't  I,  in  order 
that  they  should  bring  me  luck?" 

"Perhaps  so,"  returned  the  donor;  "but 
while  you're  waitin'  I'd  like  to  give  you 
some  o'  my  luck.  —  I  got  so  much." 

Indeed,  Blanche  Aurora  was  beginning  to 
gain  curves,  and  the  round  eyes  to  find  ex- 
pression. 

She  sang  at  her  work  to-day,  the  pink  bow 
on  her  head  shaking  with  her  energy  as  she 
rubbed.  Suddenly  the  iron  knocker  on  the 
282 


Behind  the  Birches 


front  door  sent  a  sharp  rap-tap  through  the 
house. 

Blanche  Aurora  arose,  laid  down  a  fork,, 
and  moved  through  the  rooms  to  answer  the 
summons. 

Pulling  open  the  door  she  beheld  behind 
the  screen  a  broad-shouldered  man  with  a 
bright,  expectant  face,  and  his  seeking  eyes 
saw  a  pink-and-white  aproned  figure  with 
red  hair,  and  a  perky  pink  bow  atop. 

She  was  delighted  at  the  prompt  manner 
in  which  the  stranger  lifted  his  hat. 

"I  wonder  if  I  have  the  right  house,"  he 
said. 

"I  dunno.  What  house  do  you  want?" 
came  the  stentorian  response. 

"What  is  your  name,  please?"  asked  the 
young  man. 

"Blanche  Aurora." 

He  smiled,  a  nice  gleeful  smile.  "I  mean 
your  last  name." 

"Martin." 

"I'm  sorry.   I'm  looking  for  Miss  Barry." 

"Oh,  she  lives  here.    I'm  the  help." 

"Really?  I  didn't  dream  it.  I  thought 
you  were  the  nice  little  daughter  of  the 
house." 

283 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Miss  Barry  ain't  married,"  replied 
Blanche  Aurora  practically,  but  she  gave 
full  credit  to  the  pink  bow. 

"Is  her  niece  —  is  Miss  Linda  Barry 
here?"  The  eagerness  of  the  question  and 
of  the  very  good-looking  visitor  was  fully 
appreciated  by  the  little  maid  who  recog- 
nized a  kindred  spirit. 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  here,"  —  the  freckled  face 
shone  radiant.  "Ain't  she  grand?" 

"The  grandest  ever.  I  want  to  see  her. 
Are  n't  you  ever  going  to  open  the  screen 
door?"  ' 

Upon  this  the  screen  door  opened.  "  But  she 
ain't  in  the  house,"  replied  Blanche  Aurora, 
coming  out  on  the  piazza.  "There  ain't  any- 
body in  the  house,  so  I  can't  leave  it  to  hunt 
for  her,  but  I  can  tell  you  where  I  bet  she  is." 

"  You  're  a  good  —  a  particularly  good 
child,"  was  the  earnest  response  as  Blanche 
Aurora's  finger  pointed  across  the  field. 

"Do  you  see  that  clump  o'  trees  and  then 
there's  woods  beyond?" 

"Yes." 

"Near  them  white  birches  you'll  likely 
find  her.  Mrs.  Porter  and  she's  got  a  secret 
place." 

284 


Behind  the  Birches 


The  visitor  laughed.  "  Secret  from  whom  ?  'r 

"Everybody  but  me,  I  guess." 

The  man  looked  at  the  smile  that  was 
keeping  his  laugh  company. 

"What  do  you  think  they'll  say  to  your 
telling  their  secrets?" 

"Well"  —  Blanche  Aurora  gave  a  com- 
prehensive glance  at  the  city  clothes  and  the 
gay  face  above  her.  "I  kinder  think  Miss 
Linda  might  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  if  she 
would,  what's  the  use  o'  waitin'!" 

"That's  what  I  say,"  was  the  hearty  re- 
sponse. "I  can't  wait.  I'm  going  to  scour 
this  Cape  till  I  do  find  her,  and  then  if  she 
is  n't  glad  to  see  me,  do  you  know  what  I  'm 
going  to  do?" 

Blanche  Aurora's  neatly  coiffed  head  shook 
a  denial. 

The  visitor  grasped  her  small  shoulder 
with  a  strong  hand. 

"I'm  going  out  to  that  point  of  rock 
there,"  —  he  pointed  to  the  height  of  the 
cliff,  —  "and  throw  myself  —  dash  myself 
into  the  sea!"  He  scowled  portentously. 

"Well,  you  might  wait  till  she  gits  used 
to  you,"  suggested  Blanche  Aurora.  "She 
might  like  you  better." 

285 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"I've  been  waiting  two  years,  but  your 
advice  may  still  be  good." 

"Be  you  her  beau?"  the  question  was 
roared  solemnly. 

"I  be;  and  if  I  don't  find  her  this  after- 
noon you  tell  her  that  her  beau  has  come  to 
town,  and  for  her  not  to  leave  the  house 
again  till  he  arrives." 

"All  right,  sir,"  answered  Blanche  Aurora, 
her  eyes  nearly  starting  from  her  head  with 
interest  as  the  caller  jumped  off  the  piazza. 
and  swung  whistling  across  the  field. 

The  soft  turf  was  springy  beneath  his 
feet. 

"A  vagrant's  morning,  wide  and  blue," 
he  muttered  to  himself. 

Gulls  wheeled  high  over  his  head  in  the 
landward  sallies  from  which  they  sailed  back 
above  the  sea,  their  wings  glinting  like  the 
distant 

"  Foam  of  the  waves, 

Blown  blossoms  of  ocean, 
White  flowers  of  the  waters." 

Whitcomb  strode  along,  the  picture  of 
Linda  as  he  last  saw  her  in  the  railway  sta- 
tion still  fresh  in  his  mind. 

Miss  Barry's  "help"  had  been  galvanized 
286 


Behind  the  Birches 


into  interest  at  the  mention  of  the  girl.  She 
had  called  her  "grand."  It  sounded  hopeful. 

Beyond  the  clump  of  birches,  in  their 
favorite  spot,  the  two  friends  were  sitting 
against  their  rock  with  their  books  and 
work. 

Talk  amounts  to  very  little.  It  was  Emer- 
son who  said,  "Don't  talk!  What  you  are 
thunders  so  loud  above  what  you  say,  that 
I  can't  hear  you." 

What  Mrs.  Porter  was,  had  in  their  daily 
contact  impressed  itself  so  increasingly  upon 
her  young  friend,  that  Linda,  though  reluc- 
tant, had,  through  very  curiosity,  come  to 
be  willing  to  look  into  the  source  of  her 
friend's  faith  and  strength.  That  little  nook 
behind  the  birches  had  become  dear  to 
her.  Near  by  rose  the  rich  dark  grove  of 
firs  and  pines,  the  sea  murmuring  in  their 
tops,  and  the  spring  bubbled  with  a  silvery 
plashing. 

Here  Whitcomb  found  them.  They  both 
started  at  his  sudden  appearance  and 
he  halted,  and  rapped  on  a  white  birch 
stem. 

"May  I  come  in?"  The  gay,  hearty  voice 
set  Linda's  heart  to  beating  fast.  "Don't  let 

287 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


me  disturb  you,"  and  the  visitor  hurried 
forward,  his  hat  off,  and  kneeling  on  the 
grass  before  her,  took  Linda's  hand. 

"You  have  met  Mrs.  Porter?" 

"Once,  I  think,"  said  that  lady,  shaking 
hands  graciously  with  the  young  man.  The 
devouring  eyes  with  which  he  was  taking  in 
every  detail  of  Linda's  improved  appearance 
made  the  older  woman  certain  that  here  was 
the  Chicago  man  whose  happiness  the  girl 
had  said  she  could  not  secure  save  by  ex- 
treme measures. 

"You  look  wonderful,  Linda.  Good  for  the 
Cape!"  said  Fred,  seating  himself  com- 
fortably on  the  grass,  and  continuing  to  ob- 
serve her  with  huge  satisfaction. 

"But  how  did  you  know  where  to  find  us?" 
inquired  the  girl. 

"Blanche  Aurora  told  me.  Happy  name! 
Dickens  himself  could  n't  have  done  better. 
Blanche  A-roarer." 

"But  she  did  n't  know  about  this  place. 
Nobody  knows." 

"So  she  observed  —  howling  it  to  high 
heaven;  but  you  might  as  well  try  to  keep  a 
locality  from  the  sparrows  as  from  kids  of 
that  age." 

288 


Behind  the  Birches 


"Well,  I'm  glad  she  did  know,"  said  Linda 
graciously.  "It's  good  to  see  you,  Fred, — 
you  have  a  sort  of  a  white,  city  look,  as  if  a 
vacation  could  n't  hurt  you." 

"Mrs.  Lindsay  told  me  you  were  related 
to  them,"  said  Mrs.  Porter.  "I  suppose  you 
came  through  her." 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  would  n't  have  known 
there  was  any  place  to  stay  here  except  for 
her;  and  I  did  feel  a  bit  seedy,  as  well  as 
King,  so  I  pulled  up  stakes  —  there  being  a 
strong  magnet  in  this  vicinity."  He  flashed 
a  still  further  enlightening  smile  around  at 
Linda. 

But  Mrs.  Porter  had  suddenly  lost  inter- 
est in  his  possible  romance.  "  Mr.  King  — 
Bertram,"  she  said,  leaning  forward.  "He 
has  been  ill?" 

Whitcomb  gave  a  soft  significant  whistle. 
"Rather!"  he  returned  briefly. 

"I'm  his  cousin,  Mr.  Whitcomb.  Tell  me 
all  about  it,  please." 

"I  know  you  are.  He  has  talked  to  me 
of  you." 

Linda's  lips  had  gained  the  close  line 
the  mention  or  thought  of  King  always 
evoked. 

289 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Good  old  King.  He's  some  fighter.  You 
ought  to  be  proud  of  him,  Mrs.  Porter." 

"I  am.  Tell  me  all  you  know  of  him, 
please.  How  is  he  now?" 

"On  the  upward  way.  He's  going  to  come 
out  all  right,  but"  —  the  speaker  cast  an 
almost  apologetic  look  at  Linda  —  "you 
doubtless  know  that  King  was  up  against  it 
for  a  while.  It  seems  that  one  night  there 
at  the  club  when  the  strain  was  over,  he 
felt  himself  going  to  pieces  and  he  wrote  me 
a  note  asking  me,  in  case  of  his  illness,  to 
keep  his  papers  —  the  contents  of  his  desk  — 
from  Henry  Radcliffe  until  he  should  re- 


cover." 


The  blood  pressed  into  Linda's  face.  She 
was  too  charitable  to  her  friend  even  to 
glance  her  way. 

"The  note  was  not  finished.  King  had 
evidently  taken  the  precaution  to  address 
and  stamp  the  envelope  before  he  began, 
and  the  last  sane  thing  he  did  was  to 
seal  the  letter  inside  it.  By  the  time  I 
received  it  and  got  over  to  the  club,  King 
was  gone." 

"Gone!"  Mrs.  Porter  gasped.  "You 
said—" 

290 


Behind  the  Birches 


Fred  nodded  reassuringly  toward  her  ques- 
tioning face  as  she  leaned  forward. 

"Yes,  they  had  taken  him  to  the  hospital, 
you  know." 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Porter,  "and  I  here. 
Why  did  n't  somebody  write  me?" 

Linda  sat  erect,  in  an  attitude  of  courteous 
attention. 

"I  never  thought  of  it,  Mrs.  Porter.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I  did  n't  know  till  he  was 
convalescing  that  you  were  at  all  near  to 
one  another,  and  I  did  n't  want  to  write 
anything  to  add  to  Linda's  worries."  He 
glanced  at  the  girl's  unmoved  face. 

"Did  you  keep  his  papers  from  Henry?" 
she  asked  dryly. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that." 

"But  you  stayed  with  him — "  There 
was  a  little  break  in  Mrs.  Porter's  low,  even 
voice.  "You  helped  him." 

"You  bet  I  stayed  with  him,  just  as  much 
of  the  time  as  my  boss  and  the  nurse  would 
stand  for.  I  was  there  every  night." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Whitcomb,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Porter  gratefully,  "you  don't  know  what 
that  means  to  me.  Bertram  was  n't  entirely 
deserted." 

291 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"No.  Harriet  was  up  in  Wisconsin  or  she 
would  have  wanted  to  help,  too.  Henry 
kept  King's  illness  from  her;  because  even  if 
she  had  been  at  home  she  could  n't  really 
have  done  anything,  you  know." 


292 


CHAPTER  XXI 

REVELATION 

LINDA,  looking  at  Mrs.  Porter,  saw  in  the 
light  of  their  many  talks  that  her  friend  was 
striving  for  the  composure  with  which  it  was 
her  wont  to  meet  adverse  circumstances. 

Fred  Whitcomb,  too,  recognizing  that  the 
older  woman  was  the  more  interested  of  his 
listeners,  began  to  address  his  narration 
chiefly  to  her. 

"King  was  pretty  badly  off,"  he  went  on. 
"He  was  nutty  for  days,  and  some  of  the 
things  he  said  in  his  delirium  made  me  feel 
that  —  well,  that  perhaps  he  'd  had  a  rather 
lonely  time  of  it.  At  any  rate,  he  had  asked 
only  that  his  papers  should  be  kept  from 
Radcliffe,  so  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  'd  go 
through  them  myself." 

Fred  paused  and  gave  a  rather  doubtful 
and  wistful  look  at  Linda's  immovable 
countenance. 

Mrs.  Porter's  eyes  were  shining  in  their 
attention. 

293 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Well,  I  had  n't  spent  much  time  at  his 
desk  before  I  discovered  why  King  had  writ- 
ten me  those  directions.  Henry  can  do  what 
he  pleases  about  Harriet,  but  I  know  Linda 's 
a  good  sport.  I  know  she  wants  the  truth." 

"I  do,"  returned  Linda,  with  cold  prompt- 
ness. "What  had  Bertram  against  Henry?" 

"Nothing,  bless  your  heart.  The  telltale 
package  of  papers  concerned  the  Antlers  Irri- 
gation proposition.  Your  father  was  out  in 
the  West  on  the  spot  and  King  was  in  Chicago 
and  these  letters  and  telegrams  were  their 
correspondence  at  the  time.  It  seems  that 
Mr.  Barry  was  completely  fascinated  by  the 
proposition,  but  King  knew  the  people  con- 
nected with  it  better  than  Mr.  Barry  did; 
and  though  it  appeared  entirely  legitimate, 
King  begged  your  father  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  He  admitted  that  if  it  succeeded 
it  would  be  a  fortune,  but  the  whole  thing 
was  on  such  a  big  scale  and  would  involve 
Barry  &  Co.  so  deeply  that  King  advised 
strongly  and  even  urged  that  they  let  it 
alone;  but  after  an  argument  of  days  Mr. 
Barry  decided  against  him." 

Fred  met  Linda's  frowning  gaze.  He 
waited  while  her  face  flushed,  then  watched 

294 


Revelation 


while  the  red  tide  sank.  In  her  concentrated 
look  she  appeared  to  be  angry;  and  Fred 
hurried  on  defensively. 

"I  tell  you,  Linda,  I  thought  you  ought  to 
know  this.  You've  always  stood  for  fair 
play,  and  there  the  whole  business  world  has 
been  knocking  Bertram  King  for  months. 
He  was  a  good  fighter  —  but  they  knocked 
him  down  at  last.  If  you  'd  seen  him  as  I  did, 
lying  there,  burning  up  with  fever,  and 
babbling  scraps  of  talk  that  showed  how  he 
has  worried  —  " 

Linda  leaned  forward  and  took  Fred  Whit- 
comb's  surprised  hand  in  one  as  cold  as  ice. 
Her  brow  still  frowned,  but  the  relaxed  lips 
parted. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me;  thank  you," 
she  said. 

Mrs.  Porter  hurriedly  gathered  together 
her  sewing  materials,  stuffed  them  into  her 
silk  workbag,  and  rose. 

Whitcomb,  much  relieved  by  Linda's 
words,  also  stood  up. 

"Don't  disturb  yourselves,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter;  "I  am  going  home  to  pack.  I  shall 
go  at  once  to  Chicago." 

"Do  you  mean  to  King?"  asked  Whitcomb. 
295 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Of  course."  Mrs.  Porter  also  seized  the 
young  man's  hand,  and  her  moist  eyes 
poured  out  their  gratitude.  "  I  can't  tell  you, 
Mr.  Whitcomb,  how  I  thank  you,  for  be- 
friending him:  it's  impossible." 

Fred  smiled  broadly.  "Oh,  say,"  he  re- 
turned, "you  don't  need  to  pack.  King  is 
here." 

"What!" 

"  Sure  thing.  I  would  n't  have  come  with- 
out him.  Not  on  your  life.  He  did  n't  care 
much  about  it,  but  then  he  did  n't  care  much 
about  anything,  and  Mrs.  Lindsay  had  said 
it  was  doing  Madge  a  world  of  good  —  and 
Linda  was  here,"  —  the  speaker  turned  and 
looked  down  at  Linda,  leaning  back  against 
the  rock  with  a  face  as  stony  as  its  gray  wall, 
—  "so  I  bundled  the  poor  chap  on  the  train, 
and  here  we  are." 

"At  that  awful  Benslow  place?"  gasped 
Mrs.  Porter. 

"It  isn't  so  worse,"  said  Fred.  "I'm  a 
dandy  camper  and  I  '11  take  care  of  King  my- 
self. The  doctors  told  me  just  what  to  stuff 
him  with,  and,  believe  me,  I  'm  going  to  stuff 
him.  He  does  n't  slide  off  this  planet  till  he 
gets  some  of  the  justice  that's  coming  to  him. 
296 


Revelation 


Not  if  I  know  it.  I  have  n't  talked  to  him 
yet  about  my  discovery  of  the  letters,  but  I 
told  Henry  Radcliffe  all  about  it  the  night 
before  we  left  and  he  can  do  as  he  pleases 
about  telling  Harriet." 

"Mr.  Whitcomb,  you  have  earned  my  life- 
long gratitude,"  repeated  Mrs.  Porter.  "Be- 
tween us  we  will  put  that  dear  boy  on  his  feet 
again.  I  'm  off  to  see  him.  Good-bye." 

Linda  felt  hurt  that  not  by  word  or  look 
did  her  friend  recognize  the  misery  Mrs. 
Porter  must  have  known  she  was  suffering. 
Lightly  that  lady  sped  away  around  the 
clump  of  birches  and  was  gone;  and  Fred 
Whitcomb's  sturdy  shoulders  dropped  down 
again  near  Linda's  rock  divan. 

"  I  thought  you  were  looking  great  when  I 
came  up  a  few  minutes  ago,"  he  said,  ex- 
amining her,  "but  it  seems  to  me  you  might 
raise  a  little  more  color  in  this  perfectly  won- 
derful air." 

"You've  given  me  a  great  shock,  Fred." 

"Well,  I  hated  to  seem  to  disparage  your 
father  in  any  way,"  he  returned  tenderly, 
"but  I  knew  —  I  just  knew,  Linda,  you'd 
want  to  see  King  get  fair  play." 

"  I  do.  I  have  blamed  him  cruelly  myself." 
.  297 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"How  could  you  help  it  when  everybody 
was  feeling  the  same  way?  Does  he  know 
you  blamed  him?" 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder  if  that  had  anything  to  do  with 
his  not  seeing  you  off  that  morning  in 
Chicago?" 

"Probably." 

"I  blamed  him  for  that;  but  now,"  added 
Whitcomb,  happily,  "everything  is  under- 
stood. We  must  n't  have  another  sorrowful 
minute."  Linda's  lips  were  looking  as  if 
there  were  only  sorrow  on  earth.  "There's 
a  great  reaction  in  Chicago  in  favor  of  your 
father,"  he  added.  "The  excitement  has 
calmed  down,  and  when  Lambert  Barry  is 
spoken  of  now  it 's  with  the  same  old  respect, 
Linda;  the  same  old  respect." 

"And  Bertram  has  done  that,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"Indeed,  he  has,  and  as  he  comes  back  to 
strength  he's  going  to  feel  pretty  good  over 
it,  too,  I  can  tell  you.  So  —  take  a  brace, 
Linda.  I  'm  so  happy  to  see  you,  I  can  hardly 
contain  myself." 

"What  a  good  fellow  you  are,  Fred!" 

"You  mean  for  standing  by  King?  Think 
298 


Revelation 


what  he's  done  for  me.  Snatched  my  sav- 
ings like  brands  from  the  burning.  My 
boss,  too,  is  a  big  beneficiary  by  King's 
efforts,  and  he  gave  me  an  extra  long  vaca- 
tion so  I  could  come  up  here  and  look  after 
him." 

"Is  he  very  weak?" 

"Not  any  worse  than  you'd  expect." 
Whitcomb's  constitutional  inability  to  look 
on  the  dark  side  shone  in  his  happy  eyes. 
"That  Cap'n  Jerry  of  yours  is  a  dandy, 
though.  He  brought  us  over  from  the  station 
and  he  whiled  the  time  away  telling  how  sud- 
denly people  either  convalesced  or  died  here. 
King  coughs  a  little,  and  that  inspired  the 
genial  captain  to  tell  of  his  brother  who'd 
been  'coughin'  quite  a  spell';  and  how  *  sud- 
den' he  went  off  at  the  last.  He  said,  'Bill 
got  up  one  mornin',  et  a  good  breakfast;  then 
all  to  once  he  fetched  a  couple  o'  hacks  and 
was  gone!" 

"Fred!"  Linda  frowned  and  smiled. 

"He  did,  for  a  fact.  King  says  he  posi- 
tively refuses  to  fetch  two  consecutively." 

"He  jokes,  then,"  Linda  spoke  wistfully. 

"Oh,  yes.     He's  as  game  as  ever." 

"Fred,"  —  Linda  clasped  her  hands  tightly 
299 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


together,  —  "you  don't  know  how  cruel  — 
how  beastly  IVe  been  to  Bertram." 

"Oh,  forget  it,"  Fred's  worshiping  eyes 
met  the  mourning  gaze. 

"I'd  like  to;  and  I  could  if  Bertram  would, 
but  he  never  will,  I  'm  afraid.  He  hates  me." 

"He'll  get  over  it." 

"Tell  me,  Fred,  —  you  must  have  spoken 
to  him  about  me.  What  does  he  say?" 

Whitcomb  looked  off  as  if  consulting  his 
memory.  "I  can't  remember  his  mentioning 
your  name  since  Reason  resumed  her  throne. 
He  used  to  babble  about  you  and  your  father, 
too,  during  his  illness;  but  nothing  con- 
nected: nothing  that  I  can  remember." 

"I'm  really  surprised  that  he  was  willing 
to  come  where  I  was  staying." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  knew  it  till  we  were  on 
the  train.  I  told  him  about  the  Lindsays  and 
that  I  believed  it  was  the  right  place  for  him." 

"But  he  must  have  known  this  was  where 
Mrs.  Porter  was,  and  that  she  was  with  Aunt 
Belinda.  He  must  have  known  I  was  with 
them." 

Whitcomb  shrugged  his  shoulders  under 
this  insistence.  "Perhaps  he  did,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "I  spoke  several  times  about  you  on 

300 


Revelation 

the  train,  of  course,  —  how  I  anticipated  see- 
ing you  and  all  that."  The  speaker's  eyes 
again  sought  some  personal  reassurance  from 
his  companion's  distant  gaze. 

"And  he  did  n't  say  anything?" 

"I  don't  remember.  I  didn't  notice.  I 
don't  think  so." 

"Fred,"  —  Linda  leaned  forward  in  her 
earnestness  and  wrung  her  hands  together, 
—  "you  don't  know  how  hard  it  is  for  me  to 
sit  here  and  wait  instead  of  running  —  run- 
ning to  Bertram  and  confessing  the  wrong 
I've  done  and  imploring  his  forgiveness." 

"None  of  that:  none  of  that."  Whitcomb 
raised  a  warning  hand.  "You  must  n't  say 
things  to  King  to  excite  him.  He's  glass- 
ware, remember,  glassware."  The  speaker 
sank  on  his  elbow,  bringing  his  eager,  boy- 
ish face  nearer  the  girl's  white  gown.  His 
hat  was  on  the  grass  beside  him  and  his  thick 
hair  fell  forward  in  his  movement. 

"But  here  /  am,  Linda,"  he  added,  in  a 
different  tone,  "husky  to  the  limit.  When 
it  comes  to  me,  go  as  far  as  you  like.  You 
have  n't  seemed  conscious  of  me  yet." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  conscious  of  you.  I'm  very 
grateful  to  you  for  finding  out  the  truth  and 

301 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


taking  such  care  of  Bertram."  The  girl's 
eyes  were  glowing  in  her  pale  face.  " '  Instead 
of  the  thorn ' ;  —  Fred,  did  you  ever  read  the 
Bible?" 

Whitcomb  sat  up  under  the  sudden  ques- 
tion, and  stared  at  her. 

"The  Bible!"  he  repeated.  "Why,  sure 
thing  —  some  of  it." 

"There's  a  promise  in  it,  *  Instead  of  the 
thorn  shall  come  up  the  fir  tree.'  It  struck 
some  chord  in  me  when  first  I  read  it  and  it 
seems  to  mean  more  and  more.  See  those 
firs,"  —  Linda  waved  her  hand  to  where  on 
the  other  side  of  the  little  brook  the  soft 
variation  of  color  in  the  evergreens  stood 
against  the  sky.  "Breathe  the  balm  they 
send  out  in  the  air?  Mrs.  Porter  has  shown 
me  how  it  just  rests  with  us  to  do  away  with 
the  wounding  thorn,  and  receive  the  peace  of 
the  stanch,  unchanging  fir  tree,  with  its  soft, 
invigorating  perfume  and  color,  and  the 
music  in  its  branches.  It  has  come  to  be  a 
great  symbol  to  me  —  the  fir  tree." 

"Hurrah  for  the  Tannenbaum,"  returned 
Whitcomb,  mechanically,  not  knowing  what 
to  say  to  this  changed  Linda  with  the  ex- 
alted eyes. 

302 


Revelation 


"You  have  done  a  wonderful  thing  for  me 
to-day,  Fred;  and  if  only  I  could  wipe  out 
from  my  own  and  Bertram's  memory  my 
wickedness,  the  fir  tree  could  at  once  begin 
to  come  up;  but  my  father  suffered  for  his 
mistake  and  I  must  suffer  for  mine.  To  be 
patient  —  to  put  down  my  willfulness  —  to 
be  willing  just  to  guard  my  thoughts  and  to 
think  right  and  to  leave  all  the  rest  to  God 
—  that's  my  lesson;  and  you  know  how  hard 
it  is  for  me,  Fred.  You  know  how  I  've  always 
managed,  and  dictated,  and  carried  my  point, 
and  never  had  any  patience." 

"You  suit  me  all  right,  whatever  you've 
done,"  blurted  out  Whitcomb,  upon  whom 
Linda's  matter-of-course  mention  of  the 
Creator  had  made  a  profound  impression. 
"You've  changed  a  lot  in  some  ways,"  he 
went  on,  rather  dejectedly,  "but  in  a  cer- 
tain line  where  I'm  interested,  you  don't 
seem  to  have  made  much  progress.  I'm  the 
biggest  donkey  this  side  of  Cairo,  I  know 
that;  but  when  I'm  away  from  you,  I  forget 
all  the  discouraging  things  you've  ever  said, 
and  I  build  a  lot  of  castles-in-the-air,  each 
one  more  attractive  than  the  last,  and  then 
the  minute  I  get  with  you,  with  a  simple  twist 

303 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


of  the  wrist  you  tumble  them  all  about  my 


ears." 


"Oh,  Freddy!" 

"Don't  you  'Oh,  Freddy'  me.  I  was 
awfully  afraid  of  King  at  one  time,  but  when 
I  found  he  was  n't  in  the  race,  I  felt  there 
was  n't  anybody  ahead  of  me  and  Holdfast's 
a  good  dog.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  win." 

"Oh,  Fred!" 

"Why  should  n't  my  thorn  be  pulled  up, 
too?  Why  should  n't  /  have  a  nice  Tannen- 
baum  with  just  one  gift  hanging  on  it?" 

"Because,  Fred,  we  can't  any  of  us  out- 
line. We  must  be  faithful  and  unselfish  and 
let  things  grow  right,  and  they  will,  because 
we  were  created  for  happiness.  Mrs.  Porter 
says  so." 

"Oh,  she  has  inside  information,  has  she?" 
returned  Whitcomb,  with  as  near  an  ap- 
proach to  a  sneer  as  his  wholesome  nature 
could  come. 

"Yes,  that's  a  very  good  name  for  it," 
returned  Linda  promptly.  "Even  I,  Fred," 
she  added  humbly,  "even  I  have  had  some 
inside  information.  In  not  getting  me,"  she 
added  gently,  "you  will  get  something  better 
if  we're  all  thinking  right." 
304 


Revelation 


Silence,  during  which  Whitcomb  gloomily- 
uprooted  such  long  grasses  as  grew  near  him. 

"I  have  no  expectation  of  marrying  any- 
one," said  Linda,  "and  you  are  a  hero  in  my 
eyes  to-day,  if  that  is  any  comfort  to  you." 

Whitcomb  lifted  a  frowning,  obstinate 
gaze  to  hers. 

"Holdfast's  a  good  dog,"  he  said  sen- 
tentiously.  Presently  he  spoke  again.  "It's 
time  for  King  to  eat.  I  must  go." 

"I'll  walk  with  you  as  far  as  Aunt  Be- 
linda's." 

Whitcomb  helped  her  gather  up  books  and 
work  and  they  moved  away  together. 


305 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    PENITENT 

BLANCHE  AURORA  caught  sight  of  the  two 
strolling  through  the  field  toward  the  house 
and  she  called  her  mistress's  attention  to 
them. 

"There's  the  man  I  told  you  come,  Miss 
Barry,"  she  said  eagerly;  and  Miss  Belinda 
pulled  down  her  glasses  and  viewed  the  ap- 
proach. 

"Why,  if  that  isn't  Mr.  Whitcomb!" 
she  said.  She  groaned.  "I  don't  think  I've 
got  a  supper  for  a  man;  I  do  hate  to  cater  for 
the  great,  walloping  things." 

She  craned  her  neck,  keeping  well  out  of 
range  of  the  window  in  the  forlorn  hope  that 
the  threat  might  pass  by.  Forlorn,  indeed. 
What  place  was  there  for  the  visitor  to  go 
to? 

To  her  surprise  the  young  man's  firm  step 

lingered  but  a  moment  at  the  door,   then 

from  her  vantage-ground  she  saw  him  lift 

his  hat,  jump  off  the  piazza,  and  walk  away. 

306 


The  Penitent 


From  another  window  Blanche  Aurora's 
round  eyes  were  watching  too,  with  an  un- 
winking gaze.  She  wished  to  see  whether 
the  stranger  would  seek  the  rock  cliff;  but 
evidently  Miss  Linda  had  been  glad  to  see 
him,  for  he  swung  energetically  across  the 
grass  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Miss  Barry,  guiltily  conscious  of  her  in- 
hospitable attitude,  and  remembering  with  a 
rush  the  helpfulness  with  which  Whitcomb 
had  smoothed  her  path  away  from  Chicago, 
met  Linda  as  she  entered. 

What  meant  the  glowing  expression  in 
her  niece's  face  ?  Had  there  really  been  more 
than  appeared  in  her  friendship  for  Fred 
Whitcomb  ? 

"That  was  Mr.  Whitcomb,  was  n't  it? 
Why  did  n't  he  come  in  ?  What  a  surprise 
to  see  him  here,"  said  Miss  Barry.  "After 
all,"  she  added  mentally,  "those  broiled 
lobsters  would  probably  have  satisfied  him." 

Linda  put  an  arm  about  her  aunt's  shoul- 
ders and  drew  her  into  the  living-room. 

There  was  a  roseate  gleam  in  the  dusky  dis- 
tance as  Blanche  Aurora  withdrew  through 
the  swing  door. 

Miss  Barry  could  feel  a  nervous  tension  in 

307 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


the  arm  about  her,  and  as  she  looked  curiously 
into  the  pale,  excited  face  she  felt  certain 
that  portentous  news  was  impending. 

"I  don't  care  if  she  has,"  —  the  swift 
thought  fled  through  her  mind.  "He's 
young  and  only  beginning  life,  but  he's  a 
good  boy.  I  like  him;  and  I  grudged  the 
poor  fellow  a  meal!" 

"Yes,  it  was  Fred,"  said  Linda,  seating 
herself  and  her  captive  on  a  wicker  divan. 

"Why  did  n't  you  ask  him  in?" 

"Because  he  had  to  go  to  Bertram." 

"Mr.  King  here?" 

"Yes,  convalescing  from  a  serious  illness; 
a  terrible  illness,  Aunt  Belinda,"  —  the  girl's 
voice  began  to  shake,  —  "  an  illness  I  helped 
to  bring  on.  If"  —  the  voice  refused  to  go 
further,  but  broke  in  a  flood  of  tears  as  the 
speaker  collapsed  in  Miss  Barry's  amazed 
arms.  "Wait  —  wait,"  sobbed  Linda. 

"There,  there,  child.  There,  there,"  was 
all  Miss  Belinda  could  think  of  to  say  in  the 
way  of  comfort  while  she,  her  curiosity  ef- 
fervescent, patted  the  sufferer.  "Where 
are  they,  Linda?"  she  asked  gently.  "In 
Portland?" 

"No,  at  the  BenslowsV 
308 


The  Penitent 


"The  Benslows' !"  ejaculated  Miss  Belinda. 
"And  I  grudged  that  boy  a  meal!" 

"Did  you  say  Mr.  King  is  convalescing 
from  something,  dear?" 

"Yes  — yes." 

"Do  they  want  to  kill  him,  taking  him  to 
Luella's?" 

"It's  —  it's  the  Lindsays'  doings, — 
and  —  and  —  Fred  thinks  it's  all  right.  He 
—  he  has  a  tent,  and  he's  taking  care  of  him." 

Miss  Barry's  voice  was  very  kind  and  she 
kept  on  her  mechanical  patting  of  the  sob- 
bing figure.  "I  did  n't  know  they  were  such 
special  friends,  Linda." 

"They  were  —  were  n't  before;  but  every- 
body wants  to  help  —  help  Bertram  now. 
You  were  right  all  the  time,  Aunt  Belinda. 
He  was  —  was  behaving  nobly  and  —  and 
protecting  Father.  It  was  —  was  dear 
Father's  mistake  about  —  about  the  Antlers. 
It  has  —  has  all  come  out  now.  Oh,  why 
was  I  so  cruel!" 

"Now,  now,  dear.  Now,  now,"  soothed 
Miss  Belinda,  snapping  her  moist  eyelids 
together.  Feeling  her  helplessness  to  say 
the  right  thing  brought  to  mind  her  ally. 
"Where's  Mrs.  Porter,  Linda?" 

309 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Gone  to  see  Bertram.  Oh,  if  I  only 
could!" 

"Why,  you  can,  of  course.  He  is  n't  in 
bed,  is  he?" 

"I  would  n't  care  if  he  was  in  bed;  but 
how  can  he  ever  want  to  see  me  again?" 

Miss  Barry  pursed  her  lips  and  her  head 
gave  a  little  shake  over  the  bowed  one.  The 
remorse  she  used  to  wish  for  her  niece  had 
evidently  come  in  an  avalanche;  and  the 
New  England  conscience  could  but  admit 
that  it  was  good  enough  for  her. 

"Oh,  there's  such  a  thing  as  forgiveness 
in  the  world,"  she  suggested  comfortingly. 

"You  know  Bertram  stood  next  to  Papa. 
I  don't  think  Papa  knew  any  difference  in 
his  love  of  us  and  him.  He  was  just  like  a 
son  to  him,  always  so  faithful  and  efficient." 

Miss  Barry  raised  her  eyebrows  and  pursed 
her  lips.  A  few  words  longed  to  pass  them, 
but  she  bit  them  back. 

"I  fought  my  admiration  of  him  always 
because  I  thought  he  did  n't  admire  me.  I 
was  jealous  of  him,  too.  1  was  the  most 
selfish  girl  in  the  world.  I  wanted  to  be 
absorbed  in  my  own  trumpery  interests 
nearly  all  the  time;  then  when  I  had  an 

310 


The  Penitent 


hour  for  Father  I  wanted  him  to  put  me 
above  Bertram  in  his  confidence  and  con- 
sideration; whereas  Bertram  was  always 
standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him." 

"Now,  Linda,  do  be  reasonable.  You  had 
to  go  to  school.  Don't  blame  yourself  too 
much." 

The  girl  slowly  lifted  her  head  and  drew  a 
long,  sighing  breath.  "I  can't  eat  supper, 
Aunt  Belinda,"  she  said  after  a  moment  of 
gazing  into  space.  "You  '11  forgive  me,  won't 
you?  I  feel  as  if  I  must  rest  and  think  until 
to-morrow  morning,  and  then  I  promise  to  go 
on  as  before." 

"How  about  Mr.  Whitcomb?  You  don't 
say  a  word  about  him." 

"He's  been  splendid  —  wonderful.  We 
owe  it  all  to  him  that  we  know  the  truth. 
Bertram  would  have  lived  and  died  and  kept 
silence;  but  Fred  read  the  letters  in  his  desk 
while  he  was  ill.  His  delirious  talk  had 
roused  Fred's  suspicions."  Linda  gave  an- 
other sobbing  sigh,  the  aftermath  of  the 
storm. 

"I'm  awfully  tired,  Aunt  Belinda.  I'll 
go  upstairs  and  perhaps  I'll  go  to  bed. 
Don't  think  of  me  again  until  to-morrow." 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Suit  yourself,  child,"  returned  Miss 
Barry  kindly.  "We  shall  miss  you  at  sup- 
per." 

Linda  vanished  up  the  stairs  and  Miss 
Barry  went  out  to  the  kitchen,  where  she 
found  her  maid  with  a  very  red  little  nose 
and  extremely  dolorous  wet  eyes. 

"What  are  you  crying  for,  Blanche  Au- 
rora?" she  demanded. 

"'Cause  —  'cause  she  did."  A  loud  sniff. 

>l You've  been  listening,"  said  Miss  Barry 
sternly. 

The  little  girl  fairly  stamped  in  her  out- 
raged feeling. 

"I  guess  you  ain't  got  no  business  to  say 
that,"  she  returned,  and  the  honest  wrath 
of  her  gaze  caused  her  mistress  to  clear  her 
throat. 

"Well,  well,  I  don't  suppose  you  did. 
Miss  Linda  has  a  friend  who  is  ill." 

"He's  a-goin'  to  drown  himself,  that's 
what,"  gulped  Blanche  Aurora,  the  relief  of 
speech  overbalancing  her  righteous  wrath. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  crazy  child?" 

"He  told  me  he  would  if  she  was  n't  glad 
to  see  him;  and  if  Miss  Linda  wants  me  to, 
I'll  go  after  him,  and  stop  him." 
312 


The  Penitent 


The  girl's  hands  and  feet  moved  restlessly 
as  if  she  longed  to  be  up  and  doing. 

"Nonsense,  child.  Mr.  Whitcomb  is  al- 
ways joking." 

"Oh,  no,  Miss  Barry.  He  war  n't  jokin'. 
He  said  he  was  her  beau,  and  Miss  Linda 
wouldn't  cry  like  that — "  a  spasm  con- 
stricted the  speaker's  throat  —  "if  she 
had  n't  given  him  the  mitten  and  war  n't 
scared  what  he'd  do." 

"Law!  Blanche  Aurora,  it's  another  man 
she  was  crying  about." 

The  restless  hands  quieted  and  the  little 
maid  listened  doubtfully.  Her  mind  was  so 
thoroughly  made  up  as  to  the  tragedy  that  it 
changed  reluctantly. 

"Wherever  Miss  Linda  is,"  went  on  Miss 
Barry  solemnly,  "men  spring  up  through  the 
ground.  Who'd  ever  think  of  those  two 
coming  here  to  have  the  finishing  touch  put 
on  a  sick  man  at  Luella  Benslow's!  If  I 
should  hire  a  boat  and  take  Miss  Linda  out 
there,"  —  Miss  Barry  indicated  the  sea,  — 
"out  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  mermen 
would  begin  coming  to  the  surface  and  swarm- 
ing up  the  side  of  the  vessel." 

"Oh,  dear,"  gasped  Blanche  Aurora.   The 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


situation  was  worse  than  she  had  feared, 
thus  complicated  by  a  man  so  dear  to  Miss 
Linda  that  loyalty  to  her  beau  could  not 
prevent  her  from  sobbing  her  heart  out 
about  him. 

"Let's  take  him  here,"  she  said  as  the 
fruit  of  her  swift  cogitation. 

"Who?" 

"The  sick  man." 

"Mr.  King!"  ejaculated  Miss  Barry. 

King!  His  name  was  King!  That  settled 
it.  Blanche  Aurora's  heart  bled  for  the  gay, 
broad-shouldered  young  man  who  had 
gained  her  sympathy,  but  Miss  Linda's 
wishes  were  paramount. 

"Let's  take  him  here  and  cure  him,"  she 
repeated  stoutly. 

"You're  perfectly  crazy,  child,"  was  the 
startled  reply.  "I  should  n't  consider  taking 
a  man  into  my  house;  and  I  think  they'll 
make  out  all  right  at  Luella's  with  our  help. 
I  shall  let  you  take  nice  things  over  to  him 
once  in  a  while." 

Blanche  Aurora's  breast  swelled  with  ex- 
citement. She  should  see  the  King:  see  the 
wonderful  person  who  could  wring  tears  from 
the  powerful  and  self-contained  Miss  Linda; 

3H 


The  Penitent 


but  at  the  same  time  she  felt  very,  very  sorry 
for  Fred  Whitcomb.  Going  about  to  get 
supper  she  narrowly  escaped  scorching  the 
biscuit  and  she  poured  the  tea  into  the  water 
pitcher. 

The  long  evening  had  dimmed  to  twilight 
when  Mrs.  Porter  appeared  at  Linda's  open 
door.  The  girl  had  left  it  ajar  as  an  invita- 
tion to  her. 

"What's  this?  What  are  you  doing?" 
asked  the  older  woman  cheerily  as  she  de- 
scried the  face  on  the  pillow. 

"Hating  myself,"  returned  Linda  briefly. 

Mrs.  Porter's  pleasant  laugh  sounded. 
"There's  nothing  in  that,"  she  returned,  and 
she  came  and  sat  on  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"He's  better,  or  you  couldn't  laugh," 
said  Linda. 

"Yes,  he  is.  That  nice  Whitcomb  is  a 
regular  steam  engine.  He  has  a  tent  with 
all  the  outdoor  sleeping  paraphernalia  and 
they  don't  expect  to  spend  many  nights  in- 
doors. Of  course,  it's  just  the  right  season 
for  the  experiment." 

"Does  Bertram  —  does  he  look  very  — 
very  ill?" 

"Oh,  rather  frail,  of  course;  but  he  looks 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


very  good  to  me  with  his  nice  gray  eyes  so 
care-free." 

"He  has  the  most  lovely  teeth  I  ever  saw/' 
said  Linda  with  a  gulp. 

:' Yes;  they're  just  as  nice  as  ever." 

"I  wish  you  were  in  a  serious  mood,  Mrs. 
Porter." 

"How  can  I  be  when  I'm  so  relieved  and 
grateful?" 

"Can't  you  be  a  little  sorry  for  me,  who 
am  absolutely  miserable?"  Linda's  words 
were  interspersed  with  catches  in  the  throat, 
but  she  was  determined  to  weep  no  more. 

"No  one  should  be  that.  Cheer  up,  girlie. 
That  nice  Whitcomb  — " 

Linda  jerked  her  face  around  into  the 
pillow.  "Oh,  don't  go  on  calling  him  'that 
nice  Whitcomb!'  It  seems  as  if  I  was  born 
just  to  make  everybody  miserable!" 

Mrs.  Porter  squeezed  the  ankle  by  which 
she  was  sitting.  "Not  everybody.  I'm  sure 
Madge  Lindsay  will  give  you  a  vote  of 
thanks  if  you  don't  absorb  Mr.  Whitcomb." 

"Why?  Has  she  come  to  life?"  inquired 
Linda  gloomily. 

"I  should  say  she  has.  Everybody  over 
there  is  galvanized  with  all  this  excitement. 

316 


The  Penitent 


Mrs.  Lindsay  says  Luella  nearly  went  out 
of  her  mind  at  first  with  two  men  impending, 
and  she  told  Mrs.  Lindsay  she  could  n't  do 
so  much  cooking:  that  she'd  have  to  get  a 
' chief  from  Portland;  but  I  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Lindsay  is  a  general.  She  promised  Miss 
Benslow  to  help  her.  She  exiled  Pa  to  his 
boathouse  and  hired  Letty  Martin  to  wash 
dishes,  —  that's  Blanche  Aurora's  sister, — 
and  Luella,  from  being  desperate,  is  now  on 
the  top  of  the  wave.  That  nice  Whitcomb 
—  excuse  me,"  —  the  speaker  gave  the  ankle 
a  little  shake,  —  "I  mean  that  strong,  good- 
natured  Freddy  has  kissed  the  blarney  stone, 
probably.  At  any  rate,  Luella  is  his  bond 
slave  already." 

"What  relation  are  the  Lindsays  to 
him?" 

"Mrs.  Lindsay  told  me.  She  and  Fred's 
father  are  own  cousins." 

"That's  not  too  near,"  said  Linda  dis- 
mally. 

"No,  but  don't  order  any  wedding  pres- 
ents yet,  though  I  assure  you  Madge  looked 
very  fetching  this  afternoon  in  a  rose  cor- 
duroy gown  and  hat." 

"Oh,  I  shan't  do  anything  pleasant  yet," 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


responded  Linda.  "Mrs.  Porter,  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  keep  me  in  suspense.  Did  n't 
Bertram  speak  of  me  at  all?" 

"I  — I  don't  think  so." 

"Don't  think  so!  Would  n't  you  be  cer- 
tain if  he  had?" 

"Pm  sure  he  did  n't,  then." 

"You  know  all  you've  said  to  me  about 
our  being  punished  for  everything  wrong  we 
do." 

"Yes." 

"How  long  —  how  long  do  you  think  my 
punishment  will  last?"  asked  Linda  naively. 

"What  does  it  consist  in?  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Bertram's  not  forgiving  me.  I  have  that 
awful  feeling  that  Bertram  never  will  for- 
give me  —  never  can  like  me  again,  when  — 
when"  —  the  nervous  excitement  in  the 
low  voice  increased  —  "he's  the  most  im- 
portant person  in  the  world  to  me:  the  one 
Father  loved  best  and  who  has  helped  him 
most.  Think  what  I've  done!  Put  myself 
beyond  the  pale  of  his  liking:  his  forgive- 
ness." A  dry  sob  shook  the  speaker.  "And 
Fred  has  n't  told  him  about  the  letters.  He 
does  n't  dream  yet  that  we  know  the  truth : 

318 


The  Penitent 


and  Fred  says  I  mustn't  tell  him:  that  he 
must  n't  be  excited." 

"Hush,  Linda.  Think,  dear.  You  know 
enough  truth  to  steer  by  now.  'Cast  thy 
burden  on  the  Lord,  and  He  will  sustain 
thee.'  All  your  part  is  to  think  right  and 
do  right  to-day.  You  don't  want  to  escape 
punishment,  do  you  ? " 

"Yes,  I  do.  I've  been  punished  enough, 
just  in  the  last  few  hours.  I  want  Bertram  to 
know  I  suffer  and  to  forgive  me,  and  to  ac- 
cept my  appreciation  of  all  he  has  done." 

"Look  out  there,  Linda,"  —  Mrs.  Porter 
indicated  the  starry  firmament  visible 
through  the  broad  window,  every  golden 
point  scintillating  in  the  crystal  clear  air. 
"The  marvelous  order  and  peace  of  that  sky 
will  rest  you  and  make  you  realize  what  it  is 
to  allow  yourself  to  be  guided  by  the  same 
Mind  that  planned  those  unthinkable  depths 
yet  which  notes  the  sparrow's  fall.  Turn 
to  Him.  Never  mind  Bertram  King  and 
Linda  Barry.  Just  know  that  God  is  Love, 
and  that  to-morrow  you  will  be  guided  to 
take  steps  in  the  right  direction.  'Commit 
thy  way  unto  Him  and  He  will  bring  it  to 


pass." 


319 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Bring  what  to  pass?"  asked  Linda 
eagerly.  "What?" 

"Ah,  there  comes  in  the  temptation  to 
outline.  We  can't  tell  what;  but  we  must 
have  faith  that  it  will  be  the  best  thing,  the 
happiest  thing." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  dejectedly.  "I  preached  it 
all  to  Fred." 

"That's  it,  dear.  We  don't  really  know 
these  truths  —  they're  not  ours  until  we've 
lived  them." 

A  few  minutes  longer  Mrs.  Porter  sat  on 
the  foot  of  Linda's  bed.  The  crescent  moon 
dropped  into  the  west,  and  the  waves  lapped 
the  rugged  shore  in  long,  murmurous  sweeps. 

They  talked  no  more,  and  when  Mrs. 
Porter  said  good-night  and  went  to  her  own 
room,  had  it  not  been  so  dark  she  would 
have  observed  that  a  photograph  of  Bertram 
King  had  found  a  place  on  Linda's  table. 


320 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A    GOOD    NEIGHBOR 

Miss  BENSLOW  was  wont  to  refer  to  her 
weather-beaten  house,  woefully  in  need  of 
paint,  as  "the  homestead."  In  her  grand- 
father's time  the  place  had  been  a  small  farm, 
but  Cy  Benslow  had  sold  all  of  it  but  a  couple 
of  acres  to  Portland  people  who  had  put  up 
cheap  summer  cottages. 

The  house  was  set  back  some  two  hun- 
dred feet  from  the  sea  and  a  few  Balm-of- 
Gilead  trees  relieved  the  monotony  of  the 
wind-swept  landscape. 

Madge  Lindsay  had  found  places  for  a 
couple  of  hammocks,  which  Fred  Whitcomb 
observed  with  satisfaction  on  his  arrival  with 
his  charge. 

"You  're  perfectly  welcome  to  them,"  Miss 
Lindsay  assured  him.  "Did  you  ever  play 
the  role  of  a  head  of  cabbage  for  six  weeks  ? " 

"Is  it  anything  like  a  blockhead?"  in- 
quired Whitcomb.  "I've  played  that  all  my 
life." 

321 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Yes,  they're  ever  so  much  the  same," 
drawled  Madge.  Perhaps  she  had  affected  a 
drawl  to  offset  her  devoted  mother's  snappy, 
nervous  manner.  At  any  rate,  it  was  second 
nature  now.  "You're  not  allowed  to  have 
an  idea  when  you're  assigned  the  role  of 
cabbage  head;  so  it  amounts  to  the  same 
thing  as  your  limitation." 

"Thanks  awfully,"  returned  Whitcomb. 
"It's  worth  everything  to  discover  sym- 
pathy." He  was  establishing  King  in  a 
steamer  chair  on  the  piazza  while  they  were 
talking:  a  precarious  piazza  it  was,  with  a 
list  to  leeward. 

Mrs.  Lindsay  looked  on  solicitously  and 
held  ready  a  steamer  rug.  "These  slant- 
ing boards  used  to  make  me  seasick 
at  first,"  she  said,  "but  after  a  while 
you  don't  mind  anything  here,  the  air  is 
so  divine  and  there's  so  much  of  it."  She 
extinguished  King's  evident  shiver  with  her 
rug. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Lindsay,"  he  said. 
"Do  you  guarantee  that  in  a  short  time  I 
shall  act  and  feel  less  like  a  shaky  old  wo- 
man? Or,  perhaps,  I'm  more  like  a  baby. 
Whitcomb  's  brought  everything  along  but  a 

322 


A  Good  Neighbor 


nursing-bottle,  and  his  beefiness  makes  me 
feel  like  a  rattling  skeleton." 

"Oh,  just  be  a  cabbage,  Mr.  King,"  ad- 
vised Madge,  "and  you'll  come  out  all  right. 
You  know  how  much  stress  is  laid  on  think- 
ing these  days.  Don't  think  a  shaky  old 
woman,  and  don't  think  a  baby,  but  think  a 
cabbage.  It's  the  most  restful  thing  in  the 
world;  and  there's  nothing  and  nobody  here 
to  inspire  a  thought." 

"You  have  neighbors,"  said  King,  "ac- 
cording to  Whitcomb.  A  cousin  of  mine, 
Mrs.  Porter,  is  staying  here  with  Miss  Barry. 
Mrs.  Porter  is  the  sort  to  inspire  even  a 
cabbage." 

"Not  when  she's  being  one  herself,"  re- 
turned Madge.  "She's  a  music  teacher! 
Who  can  blame  her?  I  know  if  I  were  one, 
I  'd  be  a  murderess  too.  —  Yes,  they  are 
over  there,  and  so  is  Linda  Barry.  I  hope 
neither  of  you  is  attached  to  her,  for  I  think 
she's  the  coldest,  most  impossible  girl  I  ever 
met." 

"Surely  you  know  of  her  sorrow?"  said 
Whitcomb,  and  his  expression  was  a  reproach 
to  the  girl's  drawling  speech. 

"Oh,  so  you  are  attached!  Forgive  me, 
323 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


won't  you?  All  the  same,  if  I'm  ever  in 
mourning  I'm  determined  not  to  freeze  my 
sister-woman  and  slink  away  from  her  into 
by-ways." 

"Madge,  dear,"  warned  Mrs.  Lindsay. 

"Oh,  Mother  and  Miss  Barry  have  had 
some  traffic  over  ferns;  and  Mrs.  Porter's 
offishness  is  different  from  Linda  Barry's. 
She's  a  queen,  Mrs.  Porter  is.  I'd  take 
lessons  of  her  just  for  the  companionship, 
only  that  she'd  think  7  thought  I  had  a 


voice." 


"And  so  you  have,  a  very  nice  one," 
chirped  Mamma. 

"Her  goose  is  such  a  swan,"  exclaimed 
Madge,  with  a  lazy  smile.  "No  one  should 
be  without  a  mother." 

"Shoo,  all  of  you,"  said  Whitcomb,  mo- 
tioning with  his  hands.  "I  want  King  to  go 
to  sleep." 

The  convalescent's  eyes  closed  as  his  head 
rested  against  the  pillow  of  his  reclining 
chair.  "There  goes  Whitcomb,  again,"  he 
announced  through  his  nose.  "Baby  always 
goes  to  sleep  in  his  carriage  when  he  hits  the 
oxygen,  you  know." 

"No,  no,  Mr.  King.  Cabbage,  cabbage," 
324 


A  Good  Neighbor 


exclaimed  Madge  in  reminder,  as  she  jumped 
off  the  rickety  steps. 

Her  acquaintance  with  Whitcomb  had 
been  very  casual  heretofore.  There  had  been 
a  few  hours  in  New  York  and  a  few  hours  in 
Chicago  at  various  times  when  cousinly 
amenities  were  exchanged;  and  now,  as  her 
youthful  vitality  had  reasserted  itself,  the 
role  of  vegetable  was  becoming  a  frightful 
bore,  and  this  invasion  of  the  two  young  men 
restored  an  interest  in  life. 

There  was  a  level  plain  back  of  Miss 
Benslow's  house  and  Madge  had  discovered 
signs  that  previous  boarders  had  essayed  to 
play  tennis  there.  She  led  Whitcomb  to  it  now. 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  fix  it  up?"  she 
asked. 

He  looked  dubiously  at  the  tufts  of  grass. 
"And  crack  a  few  tendons  over  these  hum- 
mocks?" he  suggested.  "Do  you  play 
much?" 

Her  dark  eyes  gave  him  a  provocative 
glance.  "I  might  surprise  you,"  she  drawled. 

"Good  enough.  It  will  be  better  than 
nothing." 

"Which?  A  girl  antagonist  or  the  court?" 

"I'll  tell  you  that  later." 
325 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Then  go  and  ask  Luella  for  a  scythe  and 
a  lawn  mower.  Let's  begin  right  off.  I'm 
aching  to  play." 

"Don't  believe  I  can  this  afternoon,"  re- 
turned Whitcomb,  rather  consciously.  "I 
ought  to  go  over  to  Miss  Barry's  and  call  the 
first  thing." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  forgot  the  attachment." 
Madge's  dark,  tanned  face  lighted  brilliantly 
with  a  gleam  of  white  teeth.  She  feigned  a 
shiver.  "Be  careful  that  she  does  n't  freeze 
you.  To  call  on  Linda  Barry  seems  an  in- 
trepid act  to  me." 

"You  did  n't  grow  up  with  her." 

"I  suppose  she's  really  charming  when  one 
knows  her,"  said  Madge,  as  they  turned 
away  from  the  potential  court  and  strolled 
toward  the  house.  Whitcomb's  manner  as 
he  replied  had  suggested  danger.  "  She 's  cer- 
tainly lovely  to  look  upon." 

"You  have  n't  seen  her  yet  in  a  normal 
condition,"  he  replied,  somewhat  mollified. 
"People  can't  get  over  shocks  like  hers  in  a 
minute.  This  must  have  been  a  great  place 
for  her,  though." 

Whitcomb's  eyes  swept  the  vastness  of  sea 
and  sky. 

326 


A  Good  Neighbor 


"  If  you  don't  find  her  much  improved,  tell 
her  of  the  cabbage  stunt,"  said  Madge. 
Then  she  pointed  out  to  her  companion  the 
low,  broad,  shingled  cottage,  clinging  to  the 
rocky  shore,  and  turned  away  toward  the 
house. 

"To-morrow  morning  for  the  tennis  court," 
said  Whitcomb  gayly  as  he  left  her. 

"How  tiresome,"  she  thought.  "That 
Barry  iceberg  will  never  like  me,  and  now 
Fred  will  want  to  drag  her  into  everything. 
If  only  Mr.  King  had  his  sea  legs." 

She  looked  disapprovingly  toward  the 
piazza,  where  the  convalescent's  clear-cut 
face  showed,  sleeping  against  the  blue  chintz 
pillow. 

"Where  has  Fred  gone,  dear?"  asked  her 
mother's  voice  at  her  elbow.  The  sharp  eyes 
had  witnessed  her  child's  desertion. 

"Gone  over  to  call  on  Linda  Barry.  I 
think  that's  all  he  came  here  for." 

"H'm.  Shows  Fred 's  not  mercenary.  Still, 
you  know,  things  are  n't  going  to  turn  out  so 
badly  as  people  expected.  I  had  a  talk  with 
Fred  this  morning  and  he's  quite  optimistic. 
It  seems  that  that  Mr.  King  is  the  hero  of  the 
whole  affair.  I  '11  tell  you  about  it  sometime. 

327 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Has  n't  he  an  aristocratic  face!"  added  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  with  an  approving  snap  of  her  eyes 
toward  the  steamer  chair. 

"I  wanted  to  fix  the  tennis  court.  I  wish 
that  human  Thermos  bottle  was  in  Kam- 
chatka." 

Mrs.  Lindsay  laughed.  "They  retain  heat 
as  well  as  cold,  remember.  Perhaps  Fred 
knows  what  is  inside  that  one  better  than 
you  do." 

Madge  yawned  and  put  an  arm  around  her 
mother  as  they  walked  toward  the  house. 
They  were  excellent  friends. 

The  following  morning,  when  Whitcomb 
had  finished  ministering  to  the  convalescent's 
needs,  and  had  placed  him  comfortably  in 
the  hammock,  he  was  ready  for  the  tennis 
court  proposition. 

It  proved  that  Luella's  lawn  mower  was  an 
antique  whose  working  days  were  over;  and 
she  indicated  to  the  young  people  a  house 
where  one  could  be  borrowed.  It  was  not 
Miss  Barry's  cottage! 

When  they  had  traversed  some  distance 
across  the  field  on  the  errand,  a  demurely 
stepping  figure  approached  them.  It  was  a 
very  young  girl  in  a  blue  frock,  bareheaded, 

328 


A  Good  Neighbor 


and  carrying  with  great  solicitude  a  bowl 
covered  with  a  napkin. 

As  she  approached,  Whitcomb  recognized 
her,  and  it  was  with  some  relief  that  she 
recognized  him,  bareheaded,  and  in  khaki 
trousers  and  sweater,  with  a  general  ap- 
pearance of  being  long  for  this  world.  He 
was  laughing  and  talking  with  Luella's 
boarder  in  a  reassuring  manner,  and  when 
his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  he  spoke.  "Why,  good- 
morning,  Blanche  Aurora." 

"Good  mornin',  Mr.  Whitcomb,"  she  re- 
sponded loudly  in  her  best  manner  and  with 
a  sharp  glance  at  the  dark  young  lady  in  the 
rose  gown. 

"Whither  away,  Blanche  Aurora?" 

"I'm  carryin'  jell  to  the  king,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

"What's  this?"  Fred's  eyes  lighted  curi- 
ously on  the  snowy  napkin.  "Something 
nice  for  King,  eh?  Bertram  the  first?" 

"Lemon  jell,"  announced  Blanche  Aurora, 
with  a  proud  accession  of  lung  power,  and  an 
evident  desire  not  to  be  delayed. 

"Well,  Mr.  King's  over  there  in  a  ham- 
mock," said  Whitcomb,  looking  doubtful. 
"I  don't  believe  I  need  to  go  back." 

329 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Go  back?  Of  course  not!"  cried  Madge. 
—  "Ask  for  Mrs.  Lindsay  when  you  get  to 
Miss  Benslow's  and  she'll  see  to  it.  Come 
on,  Fred." 

Blanche  Aurora  gave  the  young  lady  one 
look,  as  cold  and  impersonal  as  china-blue 
optics  are  capable  of  bestowing,  and  moved 
on  her  way.  Call  for  Mrs.  Lindsay!  Not 
likely,  now  that  she  knew  the  king  was  easy 
prey  in  a  hammock. 

"But  poor  King,"  protested  Whitcomb,  as 
he  followed  Madge's  determined  march.  "Is 
it  fair?  No  cotton  for  his  ears." 

"Oh,  she  probably  won't  see  him  at  all. 
The  young  one  will  give  the  jelly  to  Mother 
and  she'll  attend  to  it." 

Little  Madge  Lindsay  knew  of  the  swel- 
ling heart  beneath  the  blue  gingham  frock. 
Blanche  Aurora's  confused  and  excited  medi- 
tations had  conferred  royalty  upon  the  mys- 
terious stranger,  and  should  she  find  him 
informally  wearing  a  crown  in  his  hammock, 
it  would  not  astonish  her  in  the  least. 

Arriving  at  the  Benslow  house,  she  cast 
glances  askance  toward  piazza  and  windows, 
fearing  that  some  one  might  inquire  her  busi- 
ness; but  it  was  ten-thirty  in  the  morning,  a 

330 


A  Good  Neighbor 


busy  time  for  housekeepers,  and  she  pro- 
ceeded unmolested  toward  the  Balm-of- 
Gilead  trees. 

One  hammock  hung  empty,  its  fringes 
stirring  but  lightly  in  the  protected  nook  to 
which  the  trees  owed  their  life. 

The  visitor  caught  sight  of  fair  hair  on  the 
pillow  of  the  second  swinging  couch,  and  con- 
tinuing from  the  head  a  long  black  chrysalis. 

She  approached  eagerly.  King,  glancing 
around  at  a  sound,  suddenly  saw  beside  him 
a  blue-clothed  figure  with  long,  white,  pipe- 
stem  legs,  and  white  sneakers.  The  new- 
comer's red  braided  hair  glinting  in  the  sun 
was  surmounted  by  a  voluminous  blue  bow. 

As  he  turned  his  head,  the  better  to  see  his 
visitor,  she  burst  forth  in  one  breath:  "I'm 
Miss  Belinda  Barry's  help,  Blanche  Aurora 
Martin,  Blanche  Aurora  for  short,  and  I've 
brought  you  a  snack,  O  King." 

The  invalid  turned,  chrysalis  and  all,  the 
better  to  view  the  bowl  being  extended  to 
him. 

"Why  —  why"  —  he  said,  exhibiting 
broadly  the  teeth  Linda  had  commended,  — 
"somebody  is  being  very  kind  to  me." 

"It's  Miss  Barry;  but  I  made  the  jell  and 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


she  sent  it  with  her  compliments.  Snacks  is 
good  for  folks  that's  sick  and  delicate." 

As  she  spoke,  the  visitor  was  devouring 
the  royal  features  with  intent  to  verify  her 
suspicion  concerning  the  new  photograph, 
and  to  understand  the  great  man's  influence 
on  Miss  Linda. 

"What  did  you  say  was  your  name?" 

"Blanche  Aurora." 

"Well,  you're  a  very  kind  little  girl.  Do 
you  say  that  jelly  is  for  me?" 

"Yes,  and  you'd  better  eat  it  right  off,  O 
King,  'cause  the  middle  o'  the  mornin'  is 
the  time  for  snacks.  I  Ve  got  a  spoon  in  here," 
—  she  took  off  the  napkin  and  revealed  it. 
"If  you  eat  it  now,  you  see,  I  can  take  the 
bowl  back;  'cause  if  it  once  gits  in  with 
Luella's  things,  no  tellin'  when  we'd  ever  see 
it  again." 

King's  gray  eyes  twinkled.  "Blanche 
Aurora,  you're  a  joy,"  he  declared  mildly, 
"and  never  in  my  life  have  I  seen  anything 
look  so  good  as  that  jelly." 

"It  is  good,  O  King,"  admitted  the  visitor, 
stentorianly  modest.  "It's  got  orange  juice 
in  it,  too." 

"Then,  get  that  chair  over  there  under  the 
332 


A  Good  Neighbor 


tree,  and  bring  it  here  where  you'll  be  more 
sociable;  and  would  you  mind  getting  the 
pillow  out  of  the  other  hammock  so  I  can 
be  royally  propped  up.  If  I  'm  a  king,  noth- 
ing 's  too  good  for  me,  eh?" 

"Of  course,  nothin's  too  good  for  you," 
declared  Blanche  Aurora  solemnly,  as  she 
carried  out  his  directions. 

"  I  'm  afraid  somebody  has  been  —  well  — 
stringing  you,  to  put  it  informally,  concern- 
ing myself,"  remarked  the  invalid  when  his 
visitor  had  propped  his  shoulders  to  her  liking. 
"If  my  head  should  lie  any  uneasier  if  it  wore 
a  crown,  the  game  would  n't  be  worth  the 
candle.  Could  you  pull  that  pillow  a  little 
higher  —  there,  that 's  fine.  Now,  then,  for 
the  jelly." 

The  visitor  took  it  from  the  chair,  and 
handing  it  to  him,  seated  herself,  with  her 
demurest  company  manner. 

"One  thing  more,  you  good  child.  Can 
you  tuck  the  end  of  that  rug  under  my  feet?" 

"Is  your  feet  cold?"  asked  Blanche  Aurora 
sharply  as  she  jumped  up  and  complied. 
"Do  you  wish  you  had  a  hot-water  bag?" 

"I  dare  say  Whitcomb  brought  one." 

"But  the  hens  can  lend  you  all  you  want," 
333 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


declared  Blanche  Aurora  earnestly.  "They 
don't  need  'em  this  weather." 

"The  hens?  What  sort  of  a  place  have  I 
got  into?" 

So  the  visitor  explained  Luella's  invention, 
and  King  laughed  till  he  was  weak,  while  the 
little  girl  eyed  him  solemnly. 

"Do  stop,"  he  begged.  "Spare  me  this 
last  humiliation  of  being  in  the  old  hen's 
class.  Now,  Blanche  Aurora,  here  goes." 
And  he  began  an  appreciative  attack  on  the 
jelly. 


334 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
WHITCOMB'S  CONFESSION 

BLANCHE  AURORA  never  removed  her  eyes 
from  her  beneficiary. 

"The  best  jelly  ever,"  he  remarked  be- 
tween two  mouthfuls. 

"You  don't  talk  a  bit  like  a  king,"  she 
declared  judicially. 

"Have  you  known  many?" 

"Only  in  stories." 

"Somebody  evidently  has  told  you  a  fairy 
story  about  me,"  —  the  speaker  continued 
to  eat  industriously.  "Who  tried  to  induce 
you  to  believe  that  I  was  anything  but  an 
American  rack  of  bones?" 

"I  knew  you  was  a  great  man,  and  they 
said  King." 

"A  great  man,  eh?    How's  that?" 

"And  I  believed  nobody  but  a  king  could 
make  Miss  Linda  cry." 

The  gray  eyes  lifted  for  a  look  at  the  visitor 
before  the  eating  recommenced. 

"Not  guilty,"  said  King. 
335 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"She  cried  somethin'  terrible  'cause  you 
was  sick." 

The  memory  seemed  to  make  the  small 
piquant  nose  tingle,  for  Blanche  Aurora 
wiggled  it  and  snapped  the  china-blue 
eyes. 

"She  cries  a  good  deal,  I  suppose." 

"She  never  cries,"  declared  the  small  maid 
indignantly.  "Why  should  anybody  that 
can  have  anythin'  in  the  world  and  do  any- 
thin'  in  the  world  cry  ?  I  did  n't  know  Miss 
Linda  could  cry;  but  her  beau  came  over  —  " 

The  gray  eyes  lifted  again,  for  a  moment, 
but  the  convalescent's  appetite  appeared  to 
be  still  ravenous. 

"  —  And  she  was  walkin'  with  him,  and  she 
come  into  the  house  and  told  Miss  Barry  you 
was  sick,  and  —  "  Again  Blanche  Aurora's 
nose  and  lips  wiggled  in  grievous  reminis- 
cence. 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Frederick  Whitcomb  ?" 

"That's  him.  He  told  me  he  was  her  beau, 
but  I  guess  he  ain't  no  longer.  I  don't  be- 
lieve" —  a  shrewd  look  coming  into  the  blue 
gazing  eyes  —  "I  don't  believe  she'd  cry 
like  that  about  him,  'cause  she  never  does 
cry."  The  addition  was  made  with  a  return 

336 


Whitcomb's  Confession 


of  indignation.  "She's  the  beautifulest, 
kindest  lady  in  the  whole  world." 

"H'm,"  mumbled  King,  over  an  extra 
large  spoonful. 

"She  give  me  this  dress"  —  the  speaker 
grasped  a  fold  of  the  azure  gingham  —  "and 
a  pink  one,  too,  and  ribbons.  She  used  to 
wear  the  dresses  herself,  'fore  her  pa  died. 
When  she  come  here  first  I  looked  like  a 


scarecrow." 


"My  compliments,  Blanche  Aurora." 
King  bowed  toward  his  companion  whose 
small  white  teeth  gleamed  in  a  face  thrilled 
into  vivacity.  "You  do  Miss  Linda  credit." 

"So  I  wondered  what  you  was  like,  O 
King  —  I  mean  Mr.  King.  I  guess  you  're 
just  plain  Mister,  ain't  you?" 

"There  never  was  a  plainer." 

"And  so,  when  I  seen  this  new  likeness  on 
Miss  Linda's  table,  standin'  by  her  pa's,  I 
wondered  if  perhaps  't  was  you,  and  it  is ! " 
finished  Blanche  Aurora  with  all  the  triumph 
of  a  Sherlock  Holmes.  "I  put  a  wild  rose 
front  of  her  pa  every  day,  and  says  I  to  her 
this  mornin',  *  Shall  I  git  a  rose  for  the  new 
picture,  too?'  —  but  she  looked  awful  sad 
and  she  shook  her  head  and  says,  '  I  'm  afraid 

337 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


not,  Blanche  Aurora.  We  need  pansies  for 
that';  and  we  ain't  got  a  pansy  on  the  place. 
I  'm  awful  sorry." 

"Do  you  know,  I  don't  believe  I  can  quite 
finish  this  delicious  jelly?  I  feel  now  as  if  my 
sweater  would  n't  give  any  more." 

"Well,  you've  et  quite  a  lot,"  observed 
the  visitor,  looking  into  the  bowl. 

"I  certainly  have;  and  will  you  thank  Miss 
Barry  for  me,  and  tell  her  that  I  feel  in  these 
noticeable  bones  that  I  'm  going  to  be  up  and 
around  before  very  long?" 

"I'll  tell  her;  and,  oh,  yes!  Be  you  able  to 
see  folks  ? " 

King's  eyes  twinkled.  "Well,  I  seem  to 
have  seen  you  without  any  danger." 

"Yes,  but  they  did  n't  expect  I  was  goin' 
to  see  you."  There  was  a  triumphant  gleam 
in  the  speaker's  eyes.  "They  told  me  to  leave 
the  jell." 

"You  think  for  yourself,  don't  you,  Blanche 
Aurora?"  laughed  King,  settling  down  com- 
fortably into  his  pillow. 

"  I  was  bound  I  was  goin'  to  see  who  it  was 
could  make  Miss  Linda  sob,  and  sob,  and 
besides,  I  wanted  to  see  if  the  likeness  was 
you  that  was  n't  ever  on  her  table  before." 

338 


Whitcomb's  Confession 


Long  after  the  visitor's  departure  King  lay, 
a  deep  line  between  his  brows,  his  perplexed 
thoughts  accompanied  by  the  constant  sound 
as  of  rain  in  the  rustling  Balm-of-Gilead 
leaves  above  him.  Linda  in  wild  tears; 
Linda  placing  a  photograph  of  himself  be- 
side that  of  her  father  and  all  following  Fred 
Whitcomb's  visit;  there  was  something  here 
to  be  inquired  into. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  the  laborers  on  the 
tennis  court  returned.  King  could  hear  their 
laughter  as  they  approached  the  house;  and 
shortly  Whitcomb  appeared  beside  the  ham- 
mock, exasperatingly  robust  and  gay,  and 
wiping  his  moist  brow. 

"How  goes  it?"  he  asked,  grasping  the 
rope  and  swinging  the  couch. 

"Stop  that,  or  I'll  murder  you,"  growled 
King. 

"Sure  thing.  I  forgot,"  said  Whitcomb  as 
he  tightened  his  hold  and  brought  the 
chrysalis  to  a  standstill.  "Madge  Lindsay's 
a  scream,"  he  continued.  "She's  more  fun 
than  a  barrel  of  monkeys.  She  knows  every 
word  of  the  Winter  Garden  and  Follies  songs 
for  the  last  two  years.  I  '11  get  her  started  so 
you  can  hear  her  one  of  these  times." 

339 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Good  Lord,  deliver  us!"  uttered  King 
devoutly. 

"Got  a  grouch,  old  man?"  asked  Whit- 
comb  with  a  solicitous  change  of  tone.  "Did 
Blanche  A-roarer,  the  human  siren,  blow  her 
whistle  too  near  you  ?  We  met  her  and  she 
said  she  was  bringing  you  jell." 

"She  did,  and  it's  safely  stowed  away 
under  my  sweater.  What  are  you  going  to 
do  next?" 

"Why,  we  thought  we'd  go  into  the  water. 
We  both  took  a  Turkish  bath  out  there  on 
that  Transgressor's  Boulevard  that  we're 
trying  to  turn  into  a  tennis  court.  It's  high 
tide,  and  Madge  says  there's  a  beach  down 
here  where  we  can  get  a  ducking  when  the 
water's  high.  That's  the  trouble  with  this 
place.  It's  so  jagged  and  deep,  only  a  sub- 
marine could  go  bathing  here  at  low  tide. 
Why  ? "  added  Whitcomb.  "Did  you  want  me 
for  anything?" 

"No.  What  should  I  want  you  for?  Get 
out." 

"All  right.  You'll  be  coming  with  us  in  a 
little  while.  So  long.  We 're  watching  the  time 
and  we'll  be  on  hand  for  dinner.  Mackerel, 
the  fair  Luella  told  me.  I  can  hardly  wait." 

340 


WhitcomVs  Confession 


King  gazed  after  his  friend  as  the  latter 
ran  across  the  grass  and  disappeared  within 
their  tent.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  opening 
them  in  a  few  minutes  at  a  sound,  found 
beside  him  a  figure  in  a  long  black  cloak,  with 
a  dark  face  beneath  a  red  bathing-cap.  Miss 
Lindsay  was  smiling  down  at  him. 

"We're  going  for  a  dip,  Mr.  King.  I  wish 
you  could  come." 

"Pardon  my  not  rising,"  said  the  invalid. 

"It's  such  fun  to  have  somebody  to  play 
with.  I  'm  so  glad  you  brought  Fred  here.  I 
was  getting  so  bored." 

"That's  a  consoling  way  of  putting  it," 
remarked  King.  " It's  a  proud  moment  when 
I  am  spoken  of  as  taking  anybody  any- 
where." 

"Oh,  you'll  be  out  of  that  hammock  in  a 
week.  Do  you  like  the  banjo,  Mr.  King?" 

"I  hate  it,"  he  replied  distinctly;  then  see- 
ing the  dark  face  fall,  "but  not  more  than  I 
do  everything." 

"So  discouraging,"  drawled  Madge.  "I 
was  going  to  promise  to  give  you  some  per- 
fectly jolly  darky  tunes  to-night." 

"Good  Lord,  deliver  us!"  again  rose  to 
King's  lips,  but  he  swallowed  the  phrase. 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Don't  mind  about  me,"  he  said.  "Just  give 
me  a  few  board  nails  to  bite,  and  let  it  go  at 
that.  I'm  not  worse  than  other  conva- 
lescents, I  dare  say." 

"Lemon  jelly  wasn't  the  thing  to  feed 
him,"  said  Madge  to  Whitcomb,  as  a  few 
minutes  later  they  were  scrambling  down  the 
bank  toward  a  short  stretch  of  pebbly  beach. 
"He  should  be  fed  saccharine  and  nothing 
else.  You  never  do  know  what  to  do  with 
such  people.  You  don't  like  not  to  be  civil. 
You  have  a  wonderful  disposition,  Fred. 
Yes,  you  have.  I  've  always  noticed  it." 

"I  fancy  I  am  something  of  an  optimist," 
admitted  Whitcomb,  "but  I  need  to  be,  as 
badly  as  anybody  that  ever  lived.  Now  I  'm 
trying  to  think  that  that  sunny  water  will 
feel  the  way  it  looks." 

"Come  on,  then,"  cried  Madge,  flinging 
aside  her  cloak,  and  seizing  his  hand  she 
drew  him,  protesting  and  howling,  into  the 
icy  flood.  The  wind  was  offshore,  and  Madge, 
thoroughly  acclimated,  had  been  anticipat- 
ing mischievously  the  effect  upon  the  tender- 
foot. 

He  was  game,  however,  and  Lake  Michigan 
had  made  him  practically  amphibious,  so 

342 


Whitcomb's  Confession 


they  had  an  exhilarating  swim  before  com- 
ing out  on  the  white  pebbles  for  a  sun  bath. 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  be  a  long  time  before 
King  can  stand  that,"  remarked  Whitcomb. 

"What  did  you  mean,"  asked  Madge, 
"by  saying  a  few  minutes  ago  that  you  need 
a  happy  disposition  more  than  other  people? 
Is  it  because  Mr.  King  is  so  difficult?" 

"No,"  replied  Whitcomb,  gathering  up  a 
few  pebbles  and  beginning  to  play  jackstones. 
He  avoided  his  companion's  very  good-look- 
ing but  enterprising  eyes. 

"Well,  are  n't  you  going  to  tell  me?" 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  n't.  You  're 
my  cousin.  I  adore  a  girl  who  does  n't  care 
a  hang  for  me." 

"The  Thermos  bottle,"  thought  Madge 
acutely.  "But  you  won't  tell  me  who?"  she 
hazarded  aloud. 

"Why  should  I?" 

"You  don't  have  to;  but  just  remember 
this,  Freddy  Whitcomb.  Look  at  this  great 
ocean.  It's  like  the  great  world.  That  saying, 
*  there's  just  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever 
came  out  of  it,'  is  true;  and"  —  Madge 
captured  Whitcomb's  reluctant  gaze  with  as 
bright  eyes  as  ever  sparkled  under  a  red  cap  — 
343 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"some  people  are  only  fish  with  gold  scales," 
she  drawled. 

"She  isn't,"  blurted  out  the  young  man 
defensively. 

"Of  course  not,"  laughed  Madge.  "Want 
to  go  in  once  more?" 

Whitcomb  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Once  more, 
and  then  what  ho!  for  the  mackerel!" 

As  he  helped  Madge  up  the  bank  a  little 
later  he  said:  "I  must  stay  with  King  this 
afternoon." 

"And  call  at  the  Barrys',"  thought  his 
companion. 

"  I  'm  afraid  he  got  sort  of  down  this  morn- 
ing, all  alone." 

"Well,  we'll  have  another  go  at  the  court 
to-morrow,"  replied  Madge  good-naturedly. 
"Freddy  need  n't  have  worried,"  she  thought. 
She  was  far  too  clever  to  satiate  a  man  with 
her  society. 

King  came  to  the  dinner  table  and  did  full 
justice  to  the  meal.  "  I  'm  quite  sure,"  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Lindsay,  "that  those  hammocks 
were  dedicated  to  the  naps  of  yourself  and 
your  daughter,  and  I  want  to  assure  you  that 
I  Ve  had  my  share  of  them  for  to-day." 

The  ladies  protested  kindly. 

344 


Whitcomb's  Confession 


"I've  had  my  eye  on  a  big  rock  there  is 
over  there  nearer  the  water,"  said  King. 
"I'm  going  to  try  my  rickety  legs  that  far." 

A  chorus  of  approval  of  the  plan  arose,  and 
after  a  short  time  of  sitting  about  the  dis- 
couraged piazza,  he  and  Whitcomb  rambled 
slowly  off. 

To  King's  disgust,  his  friend  as  they  left 
had  picked  up  a  steamer  rug. 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,"  begged  the  convalescent. 

"Shut  up!"  returned  the  other  cheerfully. 

Arrived  at  their  goal,  he  threw  down  the 
rug  and  King  was  glad  to  sit  on  it  under  the 
lee  of  the  big  rock. 

"What  did  you  do  yesterday,  Freddy?" 
asked  King,  going  directly  to  the  subject 
uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"I  called  on  Linda  and  Mrs.  Porter.  Mrs. 
Porter  told  you,  did  n't  she?" 

"Yes.  She  came  over,  exuding  gratitude  to 
you  at  every  pore,  and  adorably  sympathetic 
and  charming  to  me." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  isn't  it?"  re- 
turned Whitcomb,  a  little  uncomfortable 
under  his  friend's  gaze,  which  seemed  more 
portentous  than  was  necessary.  "Women 
always  overdo  the  gratitude  business.  Just 
345 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


like  her  to  praise  me  for  engineering  an  extra 
long  vacation  for  myself." 

"  Freddy,  you  have  n't  told  me  every- 
thing," said  King  sternly.  "Now,  spit  it 
right  out  in  Papa's  hand." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  the 
other  uneasily. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  'm  going  to  find  out. 
When  Linda  left  Chicago  I  was  the  blackest 
sheep  on  her  black  list.  What  did  you  tell 
her  to  change  her  attitude?  It  was  n't  that 
I  had  been  ill,  for  she  would  have  buried  me 
cheerfully.  Now,  out  with  it!" 

"Is  this  the  third  degree?"  Whitcomb  was 
gathering  the  daisies  within  reach. 

"Yes.  It  was  n't  any  opinion  you  had  of 
me  contrary  to  hers.  She  thinks  for  herself; 
so  give  me  the  real  stuff." 

"Why  do  you  believe  she  has  changed?" 
Whitcomb  returned  the  other's  gaze  now 
doggedly. 

"Because,  after  you  left,  she  wept;  — 
according  to  impartial  testimony,  loud  and 
long.  Also  she  dug  up  my  photograph  and 
placed  it  on  a  table  beside  her  father's. 
This  information  was  fed  to  me  with  the 


346 


Whitcomb' s  Confession 


"Blanche  Aurora!"  exclaimed  Whitcomb, 
scowling. 

"Exactly.     Now,  then!" 

"Well,"  said  Whitcomb,  "it  seems  the 
time  to  tell  you.  While  you  were  in  the  hos- 
pital your  jabbering  aroused  my  suspicions. 
I  was  n't  Henry  Radcliffe  and  I  had  n't  been 
forbidden;  so  I  went  through  some  of  your 
papers.  When  I  had  found  the  Antlers  cor- 
respondence I  did  n't  need  to  go  any  farther." 

King's  thoughtful  frown  deepened  and 
his  face  grew  slowly  and  darkly  red. 

Whitcomb  maintained  his  steady  regard. 
"At  that  time  I  did  n't  know  whether  you 
were  going  to  live  or  not,  but  I  did  know  that 
justice  was  going  to  be  done  you." 

Recollection  of  Whitcomb 's  devotion  swept 
over  the  other  man  like  a  tide,  submerging  the 
first  sensation  of  outraged  privacy:  of  having 
been  outwitted. 

"You  meant  well,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"Yes,  and  I  did  well,"  said  Whitcomb 
slowly.  "  I  did  n't  tell  Radcliffe  till  the  night 
before  we  left  Chicago.  Harriet  was  in  Wis- 
consin. I  don't  know  her  so  well  as  Linda; 
but  Linda  is  as  fair-minded  as  another  fellow. 
There  was  only  one  thing  to  do  in  her  case." 

347 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


There  was  a  short  silence,  then  Whitcomb 
continued :  — 

"I'll  tell  you  frankly  that  if  I  had  had  any 
idea  of  the  depth  of  her  feeling  in  the  matter, 
I  should  have  hesitated.  This  laying  down 
your  life  for  a  friend  is  n't  in  my  line.  It's 
beyond  me.  You  know  how  I've  banked  on 
seeing  her.  Well,  she  can't  see  me.  I  used 
to  be  awfully  afraid  of  you  and  it  passed. 
Now  I'm  afraid  of  you  again." 

King  saw  his  friend's  increasing  difficulty 
of  speech,  and  he  put  a  hand  on  the  big  brown 
arm. 

"No  cause,  Freddy.  Absolutely  no  cause," 
he  said. 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  then  King 
sank  back  from  the  erect  posture  he  had 
maintained. 

"It  can't  be  helped,"  he  said,  speaking  low. 
"It  can't  be  helped." 

"No,"  said  Whitcomb  roughly,  "and  it 
ought  not  to  be  helped.  There  was  no  sense 
in  your  quixotism." 

"Would  you,  do  you  believe,"  asked  King 
slowly,  —  "would  you  do  as  much  for 
Linda?" 

The  other  looked  up  at  him  sharply. 
348 


Whitcomb's  Confession 


"Did  you  do  it  for  Linda?" 

"Yes;  every  act  of  my  life  I  believed  was 
for  Linda,"  returned  King  quietly. 

"Then"  —  began  Whitcomb  excitedly. 

"Yes;  then"  interrupted  King,  still  quietly. 
"Then;  not  now.  It's  over.  It's  finished." 

Whitcomb  frowned  off  toward  the  illimit- 
able sea;  and  Madge's  attempt  at  consola- 
tion came  back  to  him.  He  repudiated  it. 
Linda  Barry  was  peerless. 


349 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   MAN   AND   THE   MAID 

KING'S  improvement  was  slow,  but  steady, 
and  the  stretch  of  good  weather  upon  which 
he  happened  on  arriving  at  the  Cape  enabled 
him  to  live  out-of-doors  and  was  a  great  factor 
in  his  favor. 

Miss  Barry  called  on  him  very  early  in 
his  stay,  bringing  with  her  an  appetizing 
little  custard.  It  was  a  form  of  food  which 
King  had  always  detested,  but  feigning 
polite  enthusiasm  he  tasted  it  to  please  her, 
and  promptly  discovered  that  the  gastro- 
nomic question  was  no  longer,  "What  is 
it?"  but  merely,  "Where  is  it?"  He  finished 
the  custard. 

Mrs.  Porter  was  a  daily  visitor,  and  one 
afternoon,  when  they  had  walked  over  to 
the  big  rock  and  were  resting  there,  she  told 
him  of  her  own  Arcadian  retreat  beside  the 
spring. 

"In  such  a  little  while  you  will  be  able  to 
walk  as  far  as  that,"  she  said.  "You  will 

350 


The  Man  and  the  Maid 

enjoy  seeing  Miss  Barry's  cottage,  too.  Did 
you  know  it  was  her  brother's  gift?" 

King  nodded.  "She  was  telling  me  about 
it  the  other  day." 

The  sun  had  already  begun  to  paint  hues 
of  health  on  his  face  and  his  voice  was  gain- 
ing resonance.  "I  try  to  visualize  Mr. 
Barry  here  in  his  role  of  'barefoot  boy  with 
cheek  of  tan,'  but  it's  a  hard  proposition." 

"So  it  is  for  Linda.  She  follows  up  old 
Jerry  or  any  one  else  she  can  find  who  went 
to  school  with  her  father,  and  gleans  every 
possible  anecdote  of  his  boyhood." 

King  leaned  his  head  back  on  the  rock 
and  gazed  up  into  space.  "  Is  n't  it  wonder- 
ful here?"  he  said.  "I've  thought  many 
times  since  I  arrived  of  the  old  woman  who, 
when  she  first  beheld  the  ocean,  exclaimed, 
*  Thank  the  Lord,  that  at  last  He's  let  me 
see  enough  of  something  1" 

"Yes,  it's  emancipation.  Linda  and  I 
have  often  remarked  that  it  would  seem  im- 
possible to  have  narrow  thoughts  here.  She 
does  n't  wish  to  intrude,  Bertram,  but  she 
would  like  to  come  to  see  you." 

King  met  the  sweet,  questioning  expression 
of  his  companion's  eyes.  "I  see  plainly,"  he 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


answered  with  a  smile,  "that  you  and  I 
must  have  it  out  about  Linda.  Your  per- 
sistent references  to  her  each  time  you  come 
show  that  she  is  very  much  on  your  mind." 

"She  is  very  much  on  my  mind,"  returned 
Mrs.  Porter  gravely.  "I  wish  you  would 
send  a  kindly  message  to  her  by  me,  and 
say  that  you  would  be  glad  to  see  her." 

"But  I  would  n't,  Maud,"  returned  King 
mildly.  "What  would  you  do  in  that  case? 
Of  course,  you  know  the  whole  situation, 
and  know  that  Whitcomb  with  his  grand 
little  revelation  bouleversed  all  Linda's  fixed 
ideas." 

"Oh,  she  is  so  changed,  Bertram,"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Porter.  "  She 's  not  the  Linda 
you  knew." 

"Perhaps;  but  it's  safe  to  say  that  she's 
still  —  still  tremendous.  I'm  more  or  less 
shaky  yet;  and  I  must  confess  that  the  pros- 
pect of  an  interview  with  Linda  in  a  cyclone 
of  repentance  makes  me  —  well,  shrink.  It 
croozles  me,  if  you  know  what  that  means. 
Sort  of  takes  me  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach." 

"You're  all  wrong.  She  has  been  through 
the  fire,  and  she  has  learned  self-control." 
Mrs.  Porter  paused  to  choose  her  words. 

352 


The  Man  and  the  Maid 

11  She  longs,  Bertram  —  longs  for  your  for- 
giveness." 

"I've  nothing  to  forgive  her,"  he  returned 
pleasantly.  "She  had  plenty  of  company  in 
the  mistake  she  made." 

Something  in  Mrs.  Porter's  loving  look 
and  wistful  eyes  caused  the  speaker  to  change 
his  tone. 

"I  won't  fence  with  you,  Maud.  I  told 
you  once  I  loved  Linda.  I  did,  with  a  depth 
which  seemed  to  exhaust  my  power  of  lov- 
ing. It's  true  that  one  does  n't  feel  a  pin- 
prick when  at  the  same  moment  he  is  struck 
a  mortal  blow.  The  fatal  fact  was  not  that 
Linda  blamed  me  for  the  sorrow  that  had 
fallen  upon  her.  It  was  that  there  was  no 
desire  on  her  part  to  give  me  a  chance:  to 
hear  my  side  of  the  story:  none  of  the  ex- 
tenuation which  one  ray  of  love  would  have 
naturally  expressed.  Instead,  there  was 
hatred  in  her  eyes.  That  was  the  only  thing 
that  mattered." 

King  leaned  back  against  the  rock,  breath- 
ing fast.  "I  tell  you  this,  Maud.  You're 
the  only  person  in  the  world  who  will  know 
it,  and  we  won't  speak  of  it  again.  I  know 
Linda  so  well.  I  know  how  this  revulsion  of 

353 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


feeling  would  express  itself  with  her.  She 
would  like  to  come  over  here  and  wait  on 
me  by  inches.  My  wish  would  be  her  law; 
but  that  would  matter  no  more  than  her 
mistake  about  the  Antlers.  The  essential 
fact  has  been  revealed,  and  —  nothing  else 
matters." 

"Is  your  present  feeling  for  her  dislike, 
then?"  asked  Mrs.  Porter. 

"Certainly  not." 

"It  would  be  no  pain  to  you  to  meet 
her?" 

"It  would  be  a  bore,"  returned  King 
gently.  "Is  n't  that  enough?  Of  course,  it 
will  have  to  come  some  day;  but  I've  been 
a  good  deal  indulged  lately,  and  I  believe  in 
putting  off  an  evil  day.  I  should  like  Linda 
to  have  worked  off  some  of  her  repentant 
steam  before  we  meet." 

King,  his  self-possession  regained,  smiled 
again  into  his  companion's  face.  "Whit- 
comb  is  devoted  to  her.  Let  her  work  it  off 
on  him,"  he  added. 

"She  will  never  marry  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  was  the 
polite  response. 

354 


The  Man  and  the  Maid 

Mrs.  Porter  leaned  toward  her  companion 
with  her  broad,  charming  smile. 

"Bertram  King,  that's  a  lie,"  she  remarked 
slowly. 

He  winked  and  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"There's  a  lot  for  you  to  learn  about 
love,"  she  went  on.  "To  love  unselfishly 
is  the  best  thing  that  can  happen  to  any- 
body." 

"There's  no  such  thing  as  unselfish  love," 
declared  King. 

"Oh,  yes  there  is,  and  you  proved  that 
you  experienced  it.  You  put  Linda's  hap- 
piness above  your  own.  You  willingly  en- 
dured injustice  to  mitigate  her  pain.  Don't 
you  know  that  your  nature  was  enriched  by 
that?  Don't  you  know  that  your  action, 
now  that  she  understands  it,  reflects  upon 
her,  and  uplifts  her  nature  and  her  ideals? 
We  can't  crystallize,  because  we're  the  chil- 
dren of  God;  and  God  is  Infinite  Love,  and 
Love  is  a  divine  principle  which  is  ever 
active.  You  assume  too  much  when  you 
hold  Linda  to  the  narrow  development  of 
her  school-girl  days.  You  can  remain  be- 
hind your  human  defenses  and  refuse  to 
forgive  her  if  you  choose  — " 
355 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"I  told  you,  and  honestly,  that  I  have 
nothing  to  forgive." 

Mrs.  Porter  shook  her  head.  "God  does  n't 
treat  us  so  when  we  turn  to  Him  repentantly. 
He  does  n't  say  there  is  nothing  to  forgive 
and  leave  us  with  the  sharp  thorn  unre- 
moved.  That  sweet  sense  that  God  is  Love 
is  borne  in  upon  us  after  a  genuine  repent- 
ance, and  gives  the  consciousness  that  we 
shall  be  upheld  if  we  long  to  be,  and  guarded 
from  a  repetition  of  the  offense." 

"My  dear  Maud,  you're  way  beyond  my 
depth." 

"No,  Bertram,  I  am  not.  You  reflected 
something  of  the  divine  in  that  tender  pro- 
tecting love  you  felt  for  Linda.  I  don't 
despair  of  you.  In  spite  of  all  the  things  you 
have  been  saying  to  fortify  your  human 
self,  I  know,  for  actions  speak  louder  than 
words,  that  a  very  lofty  affection  once  found 
place  in  your  heart,  and  that  pure  flame  can- 
not die  because  it  was  a  reflection  of  that 
which  is  immortal  and  eternal.  Never  mind 
Linda.  God  will  take  care  of  her,  too. 
Your  business  is  with  your  own  thought,  to 
keep  it  in  a  high  place,  trusting  to  be  led  to 
that  happiness  which  God  has  prepared  for 
356 


The  Man  and  the  Maid 

them  that  love  Him,  without  outlining 
what  that  happiness  shall  consist  in." 

King  drew  a  long  breath  and  smiled, 
looking  long  and  affectionately  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"Is  n't  she  the  great  little  preacher!"  he 
remarked. 

"Oh,  it's  all  so  simple!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Porter  softly,  clasping  her  hands  together. 
"Why  can't  everybody  see  it!" 

When  she  went  home  to-day,  she  told 
Linda  nothing  of  this  interview.  The  girl 
had  ceased  to  cross-question  her  friend  on 
her  return  from  these  visits;  for  she  never 
received  any  satisfaction,  and  the  invitation 
she  longed  for  never  came. 

Blanche  Aurora  was  very  much  alive  to 
the  fact  that  her  adored  one  was  the  only 
member  of  the  family  who  had  not  called 
on  the  convalescent.  She  was  not  entirely 
satisfied  to  have  it  so.  King's  photograph 
had  been  framed,  and  Blanche  Aurora  in 
the  growing  scarcity  of  wild  roses  made  little 
bouquets  of  clover  and  daisies  and  placed 
them  between  the  two  pictures,  and  she 
noticed  that  Linda  allowed  the  sharing. 

Whitcomb  came  to  call  sometimes,  but 
357 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


between  his  attentions  to  King  and  the  carry- 
ing out  of  Madge's  various  plans,  his  time 
was  pretty  well  occupied. 

Late  one  afternoon  Blanche  Aurora  found 
Linda  in  the  hammock  and  alone.  She 
seized  her  opportunity. 

"Say,  Miss  Linda,"  she  began,  "we've 
got  a  real  good  Bavarian  cream  for  Mr. 
King's  supper.  'T  ain't  convenient  for  me 
to  take  it  over.  I  wonder  if  you  could." 

Linda  sat  up,  and  regarded  the  white- 
aproned  short  figure.  The  pink  bow  atop 
quivered  with  the  depth  of  its  owner's  imagin- 
ings and  deep-laid  schemes.  The  keen  eyes 
observed  that  Linda  flushed  and  hesitated. 

"Mrs.  Porter  is  still  in  Portland?"  she 
asked. 

"Why,  yes,  and  did  n't  you  know  Miss 
Barry  went  too?  I 've  got  to  get  their  supper, 
you  see;  and  the  cream  come  out  awful 
good." 

Linda  rose.  "Yes,  I  '11  go,"  she  said 
quietly;  but  there  was  no  quiet  within. 

All  the  way  across  the  field,  her  heart 

hurried.  She  had  never  called  at  the  Benslow 

house.   To  go  for  the  first  time  to  see  King, 

without  his  request,  and  risk  his  betraying, 

358 


The  Man  and  the  Maid 

perhaps,  before  the  others,  that  she  was  un- 
welcome, was  an  ordeal  which  she  dreaded, 
but  the  desire  to  see  him  rose  above  the 
confusion  of  her  crowding  thoughts,  and 
though  her  hands  trembled  on  the  covered 
bowl  she  pushed  on. 

The  lovely  late  afternoon  light  struck 
across  the  field.  Bertram  King,  wandering 
down  from  the  piazza,  noted  the  golden 
sheen  upon  the  grass  and  the  majestic  cloud- 
effects  in  the  vast  arch  above.  His  near- 
sighted eyes  beheld  a  white  figure  advancing 
in  the  golden  light. 

He  hastened  his  steps  in  welcome. 

"Good  for  you,"  he  cried.  "I  was  getting 
very  tired  of  myself.  There's  been  an 
exodus  from  here  to  Portland  to-day.  I 
know  I'm  a  big  boy  now,  since  Whitcomb 
was  willing  to  leave  me.  Even  Miss  Benslow 
is  out  and  I  'm  holding  the  fort." 

All  the  time  that  his  words  were  calling 
through  the  still  air,  he  was  walking  toward 
the  visitor.  Linda's  face  from  doubt  grew 
radiant.  The  relieved,  happy  color  rose  in 
her  cheeks.  Her  lovely  eyes  beamed.  In 
her  white  gown  and  with  her  shining,  grateful 
joy,  she  was  very  beautiful  as  her  light  spring- 
359 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


ing  step  brought  her  near  and  into  King's  field 
of  vision.  His  breath  caught  in  the  shock 
and  he  stood  stock-still. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  too,  Bertram,"  she 
cried.  Her  eyes  were  starry,  her  smile 
enchanting. 

"Why,  Linda!  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
thought  you  were  Maud,"  he  exclaimed. 

The  change  in  his  tone,  his  blank  surprise 
and  ebbing  eagerness,  set  Linda's  heart  to 
beating  wildly.  The  stricture  in  her  bosom 
drew  back  the  radiant  promise  from  her  face. 

King  saw  the  transformation  with  a  pang. 
"Forgive  my  shouting  at  you  like  that,"  he 
went  on,  struggling  for  his  self-possession. 
It  was  as  if  Linda's  soul  had  been  revealed 
to  him  for  an  instant,  joyous,  hopeful, 
humble:  the  new  Linda  of  whom  Maud  had 
spoken. 

"You  have  something  for  me,  I'll  wager," 
he  continued.  He  could  see  the  white  napkin 
trembling  in  the  suddenly  unsteady  hands. 
"Let  me  take  it,"  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word.  "I've  grown  arrogantly  used  to 
bowls  coming  across  this  field  filled  with 
something  delicious,  designed  to  upholster 
these  bones." 

360 


The  Man  and  the  Maid 

Linda  had  made  good  use  of  the  time  he 
gave  her.  Her  throat  was  free  again.  She 
could  speak.  "You  look  better  than  I  ex- 
pected," she  said  quietly. 

"And  you,  too,  Linda.  You  do  credit  to 
the  place."  King  was  trying  to  regain  some 
of  the  plans  he  had  formulated  for  their  first 
interview;  but  they  had  been  designed  to 
baffle  effusiveness,  and  this  girl  in  the  white 
gown  seemed  to  radiate  calm. 

"Yes,"  she  returned.  "I  have  Blanche 
Aurora's  word  for  it  that  the  Bavarian  cream 
in  that  bowl  is  good.  There  has  been  an 
exodus  to  Portland  from  our  house,  too,  so 
she  asked  me  to  bring  it  over." 

"Awfully  good  of  you,"  said  King,  hot 
with  mingled  sensations.  "There  never  was 
any  one  so  spoiled  as  I." 

"I  must  run  back  now,"  said  Linda.  "I 
can  see  that  you  will  soon  have  the  freedom 
of  the  neighborhood,  and  we  shall  be  looking 
for  you  at  Aunt  Belinda's." 

"Oh,  don't  desert  me,"  begged  King.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  obtained  the  promise 
of  a  wonderful  gift :  the  lavish  outpour- 
ing of  a  rich  nature.  A  veil  had  fallen, 
concealing  it :  a  veil,  pure,  white,  impen- 
361 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


etrable.  Linda's  eyes  and  voice  were  friendly, 
self-possessed. 

"Blanche  Aurora  says  snacks  are  good  for 
you  when  you're  sick  and  delicate,"  he  went 
on;  "but  never  have  I  been  reduced  to  eating 
a  snack  alone.  It's  tea-time,  too.  Could  n't 
you  make  me  some  tea?" 

Linda's  dimple  appeared.  "I'm  afraid  the 
duty  of  a  host  presses  upon  you.  I'd  better 
not.  I've  never  called  at  the  Benslows'. 
Besides,  you  say  there's  not  a  chaperone  on 
the  place." 

"There  are  the  hens,"  said  King  eagerly. 
"Won't  they  do?  You  never  saw  so  many  in 
your  life.  Come.  We'll  have  tea  on  the 
piazza.  Whitcomb  has  rigged  up  an  old  sail 
across  one  end  so  Boreas  shan't  strike  my 
frail  form  too  roughly." 

He  turned  back  toward  the  house,  beseech- 
ing her  with  his  eyes,  and  Linda  followed  in 
silence.  "I'm  getting  to  know  this  bowl," 
continued  King,  lifting  it  and  investigating 
its  blue  stripes.  "It's  a  magic  one,  never 
empty  excepting  when  I  get  through  with  it. 
We'll  have  two  spoons.  I'm  not  stingy." 

As  they  ascended  the  rickety  piazza  steps, 
King  continued:  "The  tea-table  is  in  there 
362 


The  Man  and  the  Maid 

in  the  living-room.  I'll  get — "  he  stag- 
gered, and  stopped.  Whitcomb  had  been 
right  when  he  said  that  his  friend  could  n't 
yet  bear  excitement. 

Linda,  looking  up,  saw  him  grow  ghastly 
pale. 

"Oh,  confound  it!"  he  gasped. 

The  blue-and-white  bowl  fell  from  his 
hands  down  among  Luella's  sweet-pea  vines. 
He  managed  to  take  a  step  toward  the 
steamer  chair,  collapsed  into  it,  and  fainted 
away  ignominiously. 

Linda  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside 
him.  "Bertram,  Bertram!"  she  cried  in 
grief  and  terror.  It  was  for  her  father  and 
for  her  that  the  strong  man  had  come  to  this. 
She  slipped  her  arm  around  him.  In  her  in- 
experience she  thought  he  might  be  dying. 

"Oh,  Bertram,  speak  to  me!"  she  cried. 
There  was  a  pitcher  of  water  on  the  neigh- 
boring table.  She  dipped  her  handkerchief 
into  it  and  dabbed  his  brow  and  his  fair  hair, 
and  softly  between  dry  sobs  she  called  his 
name.  They  were  alone  in  the  remote, 
tumbledown  house.  Even  the  ocean's  mighty 
grasp  of  its  rocks  sounded  distant.  There 
was  no  one  to  call  upon  save  the  invisible 
363 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Reality,  and  Linda  turned  her  full  heart  to 
the  very  present  help. 

In  a  minute,  which  seemed  to  her  an  hour, 
consciousness  began  to  return  to  King.  Her 
arm  was  around  him;  she  had  drawn  his 
cheek  against  her  bosom.  As  he  slowly  real- 
ized his  position  and  heard  her  low  voice, 
he  seemed  again  to  see  Linda  as  she  had  come 
toward  him  in  her  white  gown  across  the 
green  gold  of  the  field.  Every  paining  haunt- 
ing memory  was  submerged  in  a  strange, 
ineffable  bliss. 

Without  opening  his  eyes  he  spoke  her 
name. 

"Yes,  Bertram,  yes,"  she  responded  joy- 
fully. 

"I  love  you,  Linda." 

Her  heart  bounded,  and  he  felt  it;  and  she 
did  not  change  her  position. 

"I  shall  always  love  you.  Whitcomb  has 
stirred  your  gratitude  toward  me.  I  don't 
care  for  it." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  answered  the  girl,  still 
holding  him  close. 

"You  would  n't  palm  that  off  on  me, 
would  you?" 

"I  want  to  be  fair"  —  the  response  was 
364 


The  Man  and  the  Maid 

low.  King's  hands  lay  loosely  before  him. 
"All  that  I  am  sure  of  is  that  I  belong  to  you, 
Bertram." 

"Are  you  certain  that's  all?  It's  a  good 
deal,  but  it's  not  enough." 

Linda's  bosom  labored.  She  remembered 
the  longings  of  the  last  weeks,  the  many 
moments  of  despair. 

"Father  loved  you  so,"  she  uttered. 

"That's  not  enough,  either." 

She  drew  herself  gently  away  from  him, 
but  remained  on  her  knees.  He  sat  up  in  the 
low  chair,  and  their  faces  were  on  a  level. 
Into  hers  returned  that  look  of  riches  unut- 
terable and  her  eyes  poured  their  gift  into 
his.  She  clasped  her  hands  across  her  breast 
as  she  gazed. 

The  arms  that  had  held  him  so  close  and 
protectingly  felt  empty. 

"I  love  you,  Bertram,"  she  said,  the  words 
falling  from  her  lips  like  a  vow. 

Instantly  the  man's  loose-lying  hands 
became  vital.  King  clasped  her  to  him. 
Their  cheeks  clung  together  and  they  kissed. 


365 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A    DIPLOMATIST 

LUELLA  BENSLOW  had  enjoyed  her  round  of 
afternoon  calls.  She  had  paraded  the  im- 
portance of  the  guests  she  was  "accommodat- 
ing" and  had  swelled  with  satisfaction  in  the 
interest  she  had  elicited. 

In  this  complacent  state  of  mind  she  was 
passing  near  Belinda  Barry's  cottage  on  the 
way  home  when  she  observed  a  strange  ob- 
ject on  the  roof  of  the  shed.  The  thing, 
whatever  it  was,  moved,  seeming  to  grow  and 
shrink  again  before  her  eyes.  Luella  owned 
some  spectacles,  but  they  were  worn  only 
in  private  and  reposed  in  these  days  in  the 
kitchen  drawer,  from  which  they  occasion- 
ally emerged  stealthily  when  some  exigency 
arose  like  the  reading  of  a  label  on  a  spice  box. 

It  was  out  of  her  way  to  go  nearer  to  the 
cottage,  but  that  mysterious  manifestation 
on  the  roof  of  the  shed  was  too  great  a 
temptation  for  flesh  and  blood  to  resist. 

She  changed  her  route  and  approached. 
366 


canor 

know  you.  I.  _:.i 

Blanche  Aurora  looked  down  on 
comer,  who  was  dressed  in  her  very 
About  her  neck  hung  chains  enough  to  ex( 
the  envy  of  the  aborigines.   On  her  head  . 
wore  a  hat  with  an  ostrich  feather  whit, 
stood  up  bravely,  although  its  appearanc 
suggested  that  a  sea-bath  had  been  one  of 
its  many  trying  experiences. 

"I'll  bet  Belinda  ain't  to  home,"  went  on 
Miss  Benslow  accusingly,  and  the  culprit 
stood  at  ease,  her  arms  akimbo. 

"I  should  think  you  was  old  enough  by 
this  time  not  to  go  caperin'  around  on  roofs. 
What  you  up  there  for?" 

"Lookin*  for  my  gum,"  replied  Blanche 
Aurora. 

"You  needed  a  spyglass  for  that,  did  you?" 

Indeed,  the  accused  was  balancing  a  long 
slender  glass  on  one  hip. 
367 


.  ca^e   uuuc  *AV  fcmii  anyway. 
chaw   no  more  'cause  Miss  Linda 
nke  to  have  me." 

Vith  surprising  ease  and  carelessness  the 
:aker  dropped  to   a  sitting  posture,   slid 
jwn  the  low  shed  roof  and  landed  upright  at 
vliss  Benslow's  feet. 

The  visitor  started  back.  "My  heart!" 
she  exclaimed,  clapping  to  her  breast  the 
hand  not  burdened  with  a  blue  parasol. 
"A  wonder  you  did  n't  drop  that  glass,  you 
naughty  girl." 

"Oh,  dry  up!"  remarked  Blanche  Aurora 
nonchalantly. 

"How  dare  you  address  me  so!  Don't 
you  know  your  sister  is  in  my  employ?" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  the  high 
price  o'  putty?"  inquired  the  other  in  a 
swaggering  manner. 

"Well!"  ejaculated  Miss  Benslow  wrath- 
368 


A  Diplomatist 


fully.  "Your  wonderful  Miss  Linda  don't 
seem  to  have  improved  your  manners  as 
much  as  she  has  your  attire.  I  hope  Letty 
Martin  knows  there 's  nobody  at  my  house 
that 's  goin'  to  rig  her  up  in  pink  ribbons. 
We  ain't  such  fools  over  there:  though  I 
guess  the  Lindsays  could  buyj  and  sell 
Linda  Barry  since  her  c'lamities,  and  the 
gentlemen  that  I  'm  accawmodatin' — "  Miss 
Benslow  raised  her  scanty  eyebrows  im- 
pressively — "is  simply  made  o'  money !  Good 
gracious,"  she  added  in  a  different  tone, 
"here  I  am  wastin'  my  time  with  you,  and 
Mr.  King  left  alone  all  this  time.  He  might 
want  somethin'!"  She  turned  with  an  air  of 
pressing  business. 

Blanche  Aurora  had  pricked  up  her  ears  at 
the  last  remark. 

"Alone?"  she  repeated,  with  sudden  in- 
terest.  "Has  your  folks  all  gone  too?" 

The  spyglass  from  the  roof  had  discerned 
a  white  gown  on  the  Benslow  piazza,  but  the 
disturbing  question  had  been  to  whom  it 
belonged.  Mrs.  Lindsay  or  her  daughter 
might  have  been  keeping  the  invalid  com- 
pany, while  Miss  Linda  wandered  away  for 
a  walk.  The  little  girl's  brain  worked  fast. 
369 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Say,  I'm  sorry  I  was  impident  to  you," 
she  said,  with  conciliatory  meekness. 

"Well,  you'd  better  be,"  snapped  Luella, 
pausing  to  loosen  a  point  of  her  parasol  from 
the  fringe  of  her  cape. 

"Say,  you  don't  need  to  hurry  right  off, 
do  you?  I'm  all  alone." 

Miss  Benslow  looked  suspiciously  at  the 
speaker.  It  was  too  much  to  ask  one  to 
believe  that  saucy  Blanche  Aurora,  with  her 
tip-tilted  nose  and  her  bold  eyes,  was  really 
penitent. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  retorted,  unmollified. 
"If  this  pesky  parasol  will  ever  let  go  that 
fringe." 

"Let  me  fix  it,"  offered  the  meek  one;  and 
she  did  fix  it  so  effectively  that  for  almost 
five  minutes  more  Miss  Benslow  stood  there, 
fuming. 

"Oh,  pshaw,  let  it  go!"  she  exclaimed  at 
last,  jerking  away;  and  with  the  jerk  the 
parasol  freed  itself. 

"Oh,  say,  Luella  —  I  mean  Miss  Benslow. 
I  feel  so  kind  o'  lonely.  You  Ve  got  a  fireless 
cooker,  hain't  you?  I  don't  see  why  you 
have  to  hurry  so." 

"Of  course  I've  got  a  fireless  cooker,  and  a 

370 


A  Diplomatist 


new  blue-flame  stove,  and  a  receipt  book 
better  than  any  thing  you  ever  saw." 

"Well,  I  was  only  goin'  to  say  would  n't 
you  like  some  violet  perfume  on  your  hand- 
kercher?  I've  got  some  perfectly  ellergunt 
and  you're  a-carryin'  such  a  pretty  hand- 
kercher." 

"That  there  handkercher,"  announced 
Miss  Benslow  proudly,  "was  brought  me  by 
a  gentleman,  the  last  time  he  was  to  Port- 
land." 

"Oh,  I  did  n't  know  as  Mr.  King  was 
strong  enough  to  go  to  Portland,"  said 
Blanche  Aurora  humbly,  touching  the 
handkerchief  admiringly. 

"He  ain't,"  declared  the  visitor,  with  a 
grand  air.  "'T  war  n't  him.  'Twas  somebody 
quite  different:  somebody  that  calls  me 
Luella."  The  visitor  giggled.  "He  asked 
me  if  he  might." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Blanche  Aurora  with  an 
awestruck  air,  "if  it  could  'a'  ben  that  spul- 
lendidMr.  Whitcomb!" 

"Well,"  returned  the  other,  smiling  and 
bridling,  "that's  jest  who  it  is.  He  wants 
me  to  call  him  Fred,  but  I  'm  awful  shy  that 
way.  I  may  some  day,  but  I  have  n't  yet. 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


You  need  n't  tell  nobody,  but  Madge  Lind- 
say is  perfectly  crazy  over  him.  She  tries 
to  hide  it,  but  she  can't  from  me.  I've  got 
eyes  and  ears.  She  sings  to  him  on  the  piazza 
these  moonlight  nights  and  plays  on  a  thing 
that  looks  like  a  big  potater-bug.  She  calls 
it  a  bandelin." 

"I  think  you're  real  smart  to  get  along 
with  such  a  big  family,"  said  Blanche  Aurora 
with  the  same  admiring  air. 

"Well,  I  did  n't  know's  I  could,  fust  off; 
but  you  see,  it  was  this  way.  Miss  Lindsay 
she  confided  in  me.  Madge  was  gittin' 
strong  and  beginnin'  to  hanker  to  git  away 
where  things  was  gay,  —  the  merry  whirl, 
you  know  — " 

Oh,  yes;  Blanche  Aurora's  nod,  and  her 
close,  respectful  attention  showed  that  though 
young  and  inexperienced  she  did  know. 

—  "So  jest  at  that  crucial  time  there 
come  this  appeal  from  Fred  —  I  mean  Mr. 
Whitcomb  —  in  Chicago,  and  Mis'  Lindsay 
says  to  me,  she  says,  'I  b'lieve  if  my  daughter 
had  her  cousin  here  to  play  with  she'd  settle 
down  contented  again.  I  don't  want  her  to 
go  away  yet.'  Cousin!"  —  contemptuously 

Li  5TI         *        *..  •  T 

—      1  am  t  any  very  near  cousin,  1  guess ; 

372 


A  Diplomatist 


and  I  can  tell  you  she  does  play  with  him  — 
and  to  him  —  and  at  him.  Oh "  —  with 
sudden  recollection  —  "ain't  I  smart!  I 
must  go." 

"Well,  jest  a  minute,  Miss  Benslow.  I'll 
bet  it  would  please  Mr.  Whitcomb  like  every- 
thing to  have  that  spullendid  handkercher 
smellin'  good.  Jest  come  in  my  room  a 
minute." 

Once  in  the  room  Luella  found  her  hostess 
so  entertaining  that  she  stayed  another  ten 
minutes,  admiring  the  pretty  things  which 
closet  and  dresser  revealed,  and  which  under 
ordinary  circumstances  their  owner  would 
have  guarded  sedulously  from  these  inquisi- 
tive eyes  and  loquacious  lips.  However,  it 
was  all  for  Miss  Linda.  Of  course,  Blanche 
Aurora  could  n't  be  certain  that  her  adored 
one  wanted  this  extra  latitude,  but  her  ab- 
sorption in  Linda  had  made  her  preternat- 
urally  observing;  besides,  she  remembered 
those  sobs. 

Her  quick  conclusion  was  that  it  were 
better  to  let  Luella  Benslow  tell  all  over  the 
neighborhood  about  her  stockings  and  petti- 
coats than  to  interrupt  the  interview  which 
the  spyglass  had  revealed, 

373 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Why,  it  must  be  time  for  the  folks  to 
be  gettin'  home!"  ejaculated  Miss  Benslow 
at  last,  with  a  return  of  panic.  "I'll  have  to 
run  every  step  o'  the  way." 

Blanche  Aurora  gave  a  sweet  smile  of  con- 
tentment and  sought  no  further  to  detain 
her  guest.  She  watched  from  the  window, 
and  laughed  wickedly  as  the  ostrich  feather 
veered  and  swung  in  the  half-lope,  half-run 
of  its  conscience-smitten  wearer. 

Halfway  across  the  field  Miss  Benslow  met 
a  white-clothed  figure  moving  unhurriedly. 

"Why,  Miss  Linda,  I  thought  you  was  to 
Portland,"  she  said,  breathless  from  her 
race.  At  the  same  time  a  hope  sprang  within 
her.  "Was  you  to  my  house?"  she  added. 

"Yes." 

"I'm  real  sorry  we  was  all  out,  'cause  you 
ain't  ben  neighborly."  Miss  Benslow  strove 
for  easy  elegance,  but  she  was  out  of  breath, 
and  again  that  pesky  parasol  had  caught  in 
her  fringe.  "Did  you  see  Mr.  King?" 

"Yes." 

"I'd  ought  to  ben  home  sooner  to  give 
him  his  tea,  but  I  had  n't  a  time-piece  with 


me." 


I  gave  him  his  tea." 
374 


A  Diplomatist 


"Oh,  I'm  so  thankful!  Now  I  can  ketch 
my  breath.  You'll  call  again,  won't  you?" 

The  radiant  young  girl  blessed  Miss  Ben- 
slow  with  a  wonderful  smile. 

"Yes.  I'll  come  again  to-morrow,"  she 
answered  graciously,  and  passed  on  her 
way. 

Miss  Benslow  turned  to  look  after  the 
lithe,  graceful  figure  crossing  Elysian  fields. 

"It's  the  first  time  I  ever  got  a  square  look 
at  her,"  she  soliloquized  in  surprise  at  her 
own  impression.  "She's  a  —  a"  — she 
hesitated  for  a  simile  for  the  perfect  simplic- 
ity of  the  girl's  appearance,  and  that  enchant- 
ing smile.  "I'd  call  her  a  sunlight  beauty," 
she  finished,  and  trudged  on. 

Blanche  Aurora,  watching  the  road  at  the 
back  of  the  house  for  Captain  Jerry's  carriage, 
did  n't  see  Linda  until  she  had  nearly  reached 
the  piazza.  The  child  then  ran  to  the  front 
door  and  in  her  eagerness  slammed  the  screen 
behind  her  and  stood  waiting. 

As  soon  as  she  met  her  friend's  eyes  she 
began  to  flush.  Yes,  it  had  been  worth 
while!  It  surely  had  been  worth  while!  Her 
heart  hammered. 

The  white  figure  came  on  out  of  the  sun- 

375 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


shine  into  the  shadow  where  Blanche  Aurora 
stood  transfixed. 

"You  good  little  thing,"  said  Linda  slowly, 
and  she  put  an  arm  around  the  small  shoul- 
ders and  stooping,  kissed  a  burning  cheek. 

"Where's  the  bowl?"  demanded  Blanche 
Aurora,  her  emotion  driving  her  to  take 
refuge  in  the  practical. 

"Among  Miss  Benslow's  sweet-pea  vines," 
returned  Linda,  her  dimple  at  its  deepest. 
"He  —  we  dropped  it,  and  it  broke." 

"And  that  Bavarian  cream?" 

"I  suppose  the  hens  ate  it  up  in  no  time," 
confessed  the  messenger. 

"I  won't  trust  you  again,"  said  Blanche 
Aurora,  with  shining  eyes.  "Mr.  King  must 
be  starved." 

"No,  I  fed  him  with  tea  and  cakes. 
Please  trust  me  again.  Please  send  me  back 
to-morrow." 

The  little  girl  and  the  big  girl  exchanged  a 
long  look;  and  during  it  the  possibility 
dawned  upon  the  elder  that  this  infant  had 
designed  and  carried  out  a  plan! 

She  colored  slowly,  continuing  to  gaze 
into  the  shining  eyes,  but  Blanche  Aurora 
retired  demurely  with  a  word  about  supper, 
376 


A  Diplomatist 


and  alone  in  the  kitchen  executed  a  dance 
which  threatened  every  stick  of  furniture  in 
the  place. 

Linda  was  still  standing  there  watching  the 
violet  sea,  so  different  from  its  morning 
dazzle  of  blue,  when  Jerry  Holt's  carryall 
approached.  His  voice  was  loud  and  de- 
fensive. 

"I  telled  Mis'  Lindsay  and  Madge  they 
could  sqwut  to  the  depot  till  I  got  back,"  he 
was  saying. 

"Why,  Jerry,"  said  Miss  Barry.  "I 
would  have  let  you  take  them  home  first. 
I  thought  they  decided  to  go  in  the  street 
car  and  walk  the  half-mile." 

"My  rule's  fust  come,  fust  served,"  re- 
sponded Captain  Jerry  inexorably.  "I  seen 
you  git  off  the  train  fust." 

"But  they  have  an  invalid  over  at  their 
house,"  pursued  Miss  Barry. 

"  I  know  they  hev.  Thet  Whitcomb  feller 
seen  a  car  comin'  and  he  said  he  could  make 
it  quicker 'n  Molly  could."  The  Captain's 
feelings  had  evidently  been  hurt  in  the  most 
sensitive  spot.  "Says  I,  'Go  it  then,  young 
man;'  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  haul  you 
fust.  Madge  wanted  to  go  with  him,  but  her 
377 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


mother  did  n't  want  to  sqwut  alone,  nor  she 
did  n't  want  to  walk  the  half-mile  neither,  so 
Madge  stayed." 

"Why,  we  had  room  for  Mrs.  Lindsay," 
said  Mrs.  Porter. 

"No"  —  the  driver's  response  was  firm. 
"Not  with  all  them  bags  and  bundles."  He 
smiled  a  smile  of  satisfaction  at  the  punish- 
ment he  had  meted  out.  "Now,  I  guess  I'll 
go  back  and  haul  'em,"  he  added,  as  his 
passengers  alighted.  "They'll  be  tired  o' 
sqwuttin'.  They're  dretful  uneasy  folks,  any- 
way. What  ye  lookin'  at,  Linda?"  he  added, 
loud  and  cheerfully. 

The  girl  turned  toward  him,  and  came  to 
meet  the  arrivals.  "My  future,"  she  an- 
swered. 

He  regarded  her  admiringly.  He  had  never 
seen  her  like  this. 

"Seems  to  be  a  bright  one,"  he  remarked, 
grinning.  "Ye'd  better  git  some  smoked 
glasses  if  ye 're  goin'  to  look  at  it  long.  Git 
ap,  Molly." 

With  a  grating  of  wheels  the  old  carryall 
turned  around  and  moved  on  its  way. 

"You  bet  the  Cape  agrees  with  them  city 
folks,"  he  soliloquized. 
378 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    FULL   MOON 

"I  DECLARE  that  was  too  bad  of  Jerry,"  said 
Miss  Barry.  "He's  usually  so"  —  her  voice 
died  away  because  she  became  aware  of 
Linda,  standing  before  her,  a  sort  of  glori- 
fied presence.  "Hey?"  she  finished  sharply. 

The  girl  had  one  of  Mrs.  Porter's  hands 
and  with  the  other  arm  she  now  softly  em- 
braced her  bewildered  aunt,  then  drew  away 
far  enough  to  look  into  the  questioning  eyes 
of  first  one  and  then  the  other. 

"You've  both  had  so  much  trouble  with 
me,"  she  said. 

"Well?"  returned  Miss  Barry  crisply. 
"Is  it  over?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Linda,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  with  excited 
urgency,  "what  has  happened,  dear?" 

The  girl  continued  to  look  at  them  for  a 
moment  of  silence,  as  if  loath  to  let  her  secret 
pass  her  lips. 

"Bertram!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Porter. 

379 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


Linda  nodded. 

Miss  Barry  gave  her  niece  a  shake.  "  Speak 
out,"  she  said,  cross  in  the  mounting  excite- 
ment of  the  moment.  "Has  he  been  over 
here?" 

"No.  I  went  there.  Blanche  Aurora  sent 
me  with  a  snack.  The  hens  got  the  snack; 
but  —  we  had  tea." 

"Oh,  you  darling!"  exclaimed  Miss  Porter 
under  the  eloquent  eyes  and  dimples.  "You 
shall  kiss  her  first,  Miss  Barry.  Hurry  up. 
I  can't  wait." 

"I  don't  see  any  reason  for  kissing  her," 
said  Miss  Barry,  and  her  earrings  quivered 
with  what  she  was  repressing.  "Feeding 
dainties  to  the  hens.  The  idea!" 

"Oh,  there  is  a  reason,  there  is  a  reason, 
Aunt  Belinda."  Her  namesake  spoke  softly, 
and  taking  her  in  her  arms  kissed  her.  "How 
good  you've  been  to  me!"  she  said  tenderly. 

Then  Mrs.  Porter  had  her  turn,  and  the 
eyes  of  both  women  grew  wet  in  their  long 
embrace. 

"Well,  give  me  some  place  to  sit  down," 

said   Miss   Barry   desperately.     She   looked 

around  and  found  a  piazza  chair,  into  which 

she  dropped.    "In  all  my  born  days  I  never 

380 


The  Full  Moon 


saw  such  a  girl.  She's  either  got  to  hang  a 
man  to  a  sour  apple  tree,  or  else  she's  got  to 
marry  him!" 

Over  at  the  homestead  Bertram  King  was 
winning  golden  laurels  from  his  self-appointed 
caretaker. 

At  the  supper  table  his  novel  vivacity  and 
good  appetite  gave  him  the  appearance  of 
complete  recovery. 

"See  here,"  remarked  Whitcomb,  "soli- 
tary confinement  is  evidently  all  you  've  been 
needing.  We'll  clear  out  soon  again.  Even 
you  went  away,  did  n't  you,  Luella  ? "  The 
speaker  turned  to  Miss  Benslow,  who  on  his 
return  he  had  discovered  scrambling  about 
to  get  supper  in  her  robes  of  state.  She  was 
now  waiting  on  table  and  blessing  Jerry  Holt 
for  his  dilatoriness  in  bringing  the  Lindsays 
home. 

"I  did  step  out  for  a  spell,"  she  returned  in 
her  best  manner;  "but  I  guess  I  war  n't 
missed,"  she  added  coyly.  "Miss  Linda  Barry 
gave  Mr.  King  his  tea." 

"Really!"  drawled  Madge  Lindsay.  "How 
cleverly  she  chose  the  right  moment  for  her 
first  call." 

381 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"There  are  cats  in  the  room,"  announced 
Whitcomb,  helping  himself  to  honey. 

Madge  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  made  a 
defiant  grimace. 

"I  met  her  as  she  was  a-comin'  back," 
said  Luella.  "I  guess  she  felt  dretful  bad  not 
findin'  me  home,  'cause  she  said  she'd  call 
again  to-morrer." 

This  remark  coming  under  the  head  of 
what  Madge  called  "juices,"  she  glanced  at 
Whitcomb  for  sympathy,  but  he  was  pre- 
occupied. He  was  looking  curiously  at 
King's  debonair  countenance. 

"It's  jest  as  well  I  war  n't  in,  7  think," 
continued  Miss  Benslow,  casting  Whitcomb 
her  most  kittenish  glance.  "Mr.  King's 
tay-a-tay  seems  to  'a'  done  him  a  world  o' 
good."  ' 

The  object  of  her  remark  caught  his 
friend's  eye  and  laughed  frankly.  Whitcomb 
reflected  the  laugh  with  a  smile,  but  his 
curious  interest  precluded  much  notice  of 
Luella's  sallies.  He  regarded  King's  good 
cheer  and  increased  color  questioningly. 
Evidently  Linda  had  used  tact  and  succeeded 
in  making  her  peace,  and  the  talk  had  re- 
lieved King  as  well  as  herself.  He  wondered 

382 


The  Full  Moon 


whether  his  friend  would  tell  him  of  the  in- 
terview or  leave  it  to  his  imagination. 

"To-morrow,  tennis!"  cried  Madge  tri- 
umphantly; "and  don't  we  deserve  it, 
Freddy?" 

"We  do,  we  do,"  he  replied,  returning  with 
gusto  to  the  hot  biscuit  and  honey  and  lob- 
ster salad. 

When  the  meal  was  finished,  Whitcomb 
pantomimed  throwing  a  ball  at  Madge  and 
raised  questioning  eyebrows. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  rising  with  alacrity. 

"Oh,  you  crazy  children,"  protested  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  "are  you  going  to  play  ball?  Can't 
you  be  satisfied  to  be  still  a  minute?  Freddy, 
you'll  take  all  her  nice  new  ten  pounds  off 
her." 

But  the  young  people  only  laughed. 
Though  Madge  Lindsay  might  drawl,  she 
could  throw  a  ball  like  a  boy,  and  in  default 
of  King,  Whitcomb,  whose  muscles  were  al- 
ways crying  out  to  be  used,  was  glad  to 
accept  her. 

Mrs.  Lindsay  went  to  the  kitchen  with 
Luella   to   bestow  the   provisions   she   had 
purchased,   and   King  strolled  out  on   the 
piazza,  and  watched  his  friend  and  Madge. 
383 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


The  girl  was  still  in  her  smart  tailor  gown. 
From  previous  observation  of  her  tactics  he 
believed  that  when  the  game  was  over  she 
would  change  her  dress  before  starting  in  on 
her  evening;  and  he  watched  for  that  psy- 
chological moment  when  she  should  disap- 
pear. 

The  moon  was  full  to-night,  and  with  the 
marvelous  obligingness  of  Maine  weather 
the  wind  had  gone  down  with  the  sun,  mak- 
ing the  out-of-doors  even  more  attractive  by 
night  than  by  day.  As  the  twilight  deep- 
ened, the  great  planet  changed  from  silver  to 
gold. 

When  at  last  the  ball  players  took  off  their 
leather  gloves,  Madge  spoke  wistfully. 

"  I  wish  we  could  go  out  on  that  moon  path  1 
Think  of  this  heavenly  night  and  no  boat 
except  that  old  smelly  tub  of  Mr.  Benslow's ! 
When  we  come  again,  Freddy  —  " 

She  stopped,  and  he  smiled  down  at  her 
brilliant  dark  face,  rosy  with  exercise  and 
brown  from  the  sun. 

"Yes,  next  time  sure,"  he  said.  "You  see 
I  did  n't  want  to  do  anything  about  a  boat 
so  long  as  King  could  n't  go  out." 

"You're  the  best  friend   I   ever  knew," 
384 


The  Full  Moon 


declared  the  girl.  "Wait  till  I  get  on  another 
frock.  We'll  drag  him  with  us  over  to  the 
rock.  The  Loreleis  will  be  singing  to-night, 
I  am  sure." 

"One  will,  I  hope,"  returned  Whitcomb. 
She  skipped  before  him.  "You've  never  seen 
me  dance,"  she  said.  "Before  the  moon  goes 
I  must  dance  for  you  on  the  grass.  I  have  a 
costume  here  and  my  castanets." 

"You'd  be  a  wonderful  Carmen,"  returned 
Whitcomb,  regarding  her  lithe  dipping  and 
swinging,  admiringly. 

"Oh,  mar-velous!"  she  rejoined.  "So 
long,"  and  taking  the  rickety  piazza  steps 
two  at  a  time  she  disappeared  into  the  house. 

King  immediately  buttonholed  his  friend. 
"Come  over  to  the  tent,  will  you?"  he 
said. 

"Sure  thing,"  returned  Whitcomb,  fling- 
ing an  arm  around  the  other's  shoulders. 

They  crossed  the  grass  and  entering  the 
tent  sat  down  on  camp-stools  in  the  opening, 
where  the  increasing  mystery  and  magic  of 
the  night  was  spread  before  them. 

"I  can  see  that  you  and  Linda  have  fixed  it 
up,"  said  Whitcomb.  "She  has  worried  her 
head  off  for  fear  the  old  friendship  would 
385 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


never  be  renewed.   She  thinks  an  awful  lot  of 
you,  old  man." 

At  the  beginning  of  this  speech  King  looked 
up  eagerly.  Could  it  be  that  his  task  was  go- 
ing to  be  so  easy? 

But  as  Whitcomb  continued,  his  look 
veered  away,  back  to  the  moon  path. 

"Yes,  we  fixed  it  up,"  he  replied. 

There  was  a  space  of  silence  during  which 
he  tried  to  decide  how  to  go  on. 

"You've  been  frank  with  me,  Freddy,  at 
various  times  regarding  Linda,  and  I've 
been  rather  surprised  lately  to  notice  that 
you  're  not  very  assiduous  in  your  attentions 
over  there." 

Whitcomb 's  eyes  also  sought  the  moon 
path  and  a  perplexed  line  came  in  his  fore- 
head. 

"No,"  he  admitted.  "Something  has  hap- 
pened to  Linda.  She's  different.  I  can't  say 
that  she  ever  let  me  come  very  near  to  her, 
but  now  —  since  she  left  Chicago,  she  has 
grown  away  from  me;  far  away.  She  seems 
to  have  a  lot  of  new  ideas  that  I  can't  follow. 
I  don't  seem  to  get  on  with  her." 

"And  you  do  get  on  with  Madge  Lindsay?" 
suggested  King. 

386 


The  Full  Moon 


"Isn't  she  a  peach?"  ejaculated  Whit- 
comb,  turning  to  his  companion  a  suddenl7 
bright  face.  "Why,  it's  like  owning  a  whole 
vaudeville  company  to  be  with  her.  Little 
slender  thing  that  looks  as  if  you  could  snap 
her  in  two  between  your  thumb  and  finger; 
but  game!  Gee,  but  she's  game!" 

"She  is  game,"  agreed  King,  the  vapor- 
cloud  which  had  obscured  a  trifle  the  full  sun 
of  his  happiness  melting  away. 

"Of  course,  a  man  does  n't  connect  senti- 
ment with  that  sort  of  girl,"  went  on  Whit- 
comb,  "but  she's  a  comrade:  just  as  good  as 
a  chap,  you  know." 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  returned  King, 
"but  sometimes  these  delightful  chaps  in 
petticoats  have  very  feminine  hearts;  and 
you  don't  want  to  break  them  in  two  be- 
tween thumb  and  finger." 

"Oh,  rot,"  returned  Whitcomb,  trying  not 
to  look  pleased.  "There  she  is,"  he  continued, 
starting  up  from  his  camp-stool  as  a  figure 
in  a  pale  wrap  of  some  sort  came  out  on  the 
piazza.  "That's  another  thing  about  Madge. 
She  can  change  her  clothes  in  a  jiffy." 

"Hold  on  a  bit,  will  you?"  said  King 
quietly. 

387 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"Sure.  Long  as  you  like.  Madge  and  I 
thought  perhaps  you'd  come  over  to  the 
rock  with  us  and  listen  to  the  Loreleis." 

"I  haven't  quite  finished  telling  you, 
Freddy.  You  know  I  said  something  to  you 
about  the  past  being  dead  and  all  that." 

"Yes." 

"Well  —  I  was  mistaken.  Linda  and  I  —  " 

Whitcomb  turned  like  a  flash  and  dropped 
back  on  the  camp-stool. 

"What?" 

"We  fixed  it  up  this  afternoon  for  all  time." 

"irk*?* 

"Yes.  It's  a  trite  thing  for  a  fellow  to  call 
himself  the  happiest  man  on  earth,  but 
Linda  has  given  me  back  everything  I  had 
lost.  I  am  as  much  a  new  man  as  if  I  had  been 
created  to-day." 

The  quiet  words  thrilled  through  Whit- 
comb.  He  tried  to  answer  and  gulped.  Tried 
again,  and  shook  his  friend's  responsive  hand. 

"You  deserve  it,"  was  all  he  could  manage 
to  utter. 

"  I  want  to  go  over  there  to-night,  Freddy." 

"You  can't  walk  that  far." 

"Try  me.    I've  never  seen  Miss  Barry's 
cottage,  and  I  —  well,  I  can't  stay  away." 
388 


The  Full  Moon 


"We'll  walk  over  with  you,  then,"  said 
Whitcomb  gravely.  He  walked  toward 
Madge  and  called  her,  and  she  came  spring- 
ing across  the  grass. 

"Ho  for  the  rock?"  she  cried  gayly. 

"No.  King  wants  to  go  to  Miss  Barry's. 
He  thinks  he's  up  to  it.  We'll  walk  over 
with  him." 

The  three  moved  away  across  the  en- 
chanted field.  The  night  was  hushed.  Even 
the  tide  whispered.  Not  yet  sounded  the 
crescendo  which  would  culminate  at  midnight 
in  a  crashing,  magnificent  choral. 

Madge  scented  something  novel  in  the 
mental  atmosphere.  Her  companions  were 
grateful  for  her  easy  chatter. 

When  they  neared  the  shingled  cottage 
she  protested  tentatively. 

"Oh,  do  we  have  to  go  into  the  house  on 
such  a  glorious  night?" 

"You  and  I  are  not  going  in,  answered 
Whitcomb  quietly. 

They  stood  a  moment  near  the  piazza,  steps. 

"Good-night,  King."  The  two  men  shook 
hands.  "I  think  that  is  Linda  now  over 
there  in  the  hammock.  Give  my  love  to  her, 
will  you?" 

389 


Instead  of  the  Thorn 


"I  will."    » 

Above  the  dazzle  of  golden  water  and  under 
the  pulsing  beat  of  the  stars,  King  moved  up 
the  steps. 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  shadow  at  the  end 
of  the  piazza  and  in  a  moment  one  word 
sounded  on  the  still  air. 

"Bertram!" 

The  voice  and  its  tone  wrenched  some 
deeply  rooted  fiber  in  Whitcomb's  being  and 
all  his  blood  seemed  trying  to  rush  at  once  to 
his  heart. 

Madge,  too,  heard  the  revealing  joy  of  the 
single  word.  As  they  turned  to  walk  back, 
her  clinging  silken  draperies  stirred,  and  she 
slipped  her  hand  through  her  companion's 
arm,  and  clasped  it. 

"It's  a  vast  sea,"  she  said  softly. 


THE    END 


A     000  042  381     4 


